RIVULET
by LifeIndeed
Summary: Something is there, in the night, stalking the Pendragon Household. There's been too many accidents: slamming doors, overturning tables, flying knives. Requesting Merlin Emrys, a well-known medium, is Arthur Pendragon's last resort. But lies long-held and secrets long-kept will need facing if this spirit is to be stopped, before it's too late.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Warning-Well, okay, maybe not a warning. Just be aware this is about ghosts and summonings and paranormal activity. Also, ENDGAME MERGANA. If neither of those things seem interesting, you might as well turn back now. Before I ensnare you anyway *evilgrin***

1.

The first thing Merlin thinks when he compares the address on his phone with the address on the mailbox, is _I can see why a ghost moved in._

The place is big, and fancy, and ancient. The type of place you'd _expect_ to experience the paranormal in. Besides the high-security gate and the driveway, which looks freshly paved, the whole lot can't have changed much in the past hundred or so years. Assuming it's been there for that long.

Merlin bet it has. He would also bet pretty quickly that this isn't one of those _the door creaked and I'm scared_ kind of calls. It hadn't sounded like one from the call he received—though in fact, it wasn't even the owners of the estate who _had_ called.

The lady on the phone told him she's "Sefa, the owner's secretary," and she's "supposed to set up a date" for Merlin to "meet the owner, and then come stay at the estate, inspect the lot." His indiscretion was greatly appreciated, and an initial fee would be paid up-front.

She was a sweet, nice-sounding girl. Merlin might have even asked for her number, if she hadn't sounded so rushed and flustered, like the girl had another hundred calls to make after this one. She probably did.

So here he is, two days later, staring at the biggest landmark in the area. After another moment of looking from the address on the screen to the towering fortress, and back, he sighs and turns onto the drive.

Then he reaches the gate, and tries to ignore the installed camera swiveling to his face. It makes a buzzing sound, a tiny red light indicating he's being watched; the gate doesn't automatically open, so he's probably supposed to identify himself. After rolling down his window and pressing the ringer outside of it, a man's voice comes from the speaker.

"State Name."

"Um." He blinks—the camera lens is surprisingly intimidating. "Merlin Emrys? I came to-"

"You're here for the disturbances," the man finishes for him.

"Right. Disturbances," Merlin repeats after a moment. _Is that what the kids call it these days?_

"You're fine to go. There'll be someone to let you in," the voice tells him before the sound cuts off, and the gates start electronically opening. Merlin says a belated "thank you" and drives on. He slowly creeps his vehicle up to the round-about, all the while inspecting the lot.

Business-like shrubs dot the side of the drive, with freshly mowed grass on the lawn all crisscrossed and manicured. The hedges, growing next to the house and along the drive to a large garage further off, look so trimmed and pruned their edges could probably cut fingers.

The only soft spot in the whole of the expansive, expensive-looking yard is a bed of bright, flowering lilies next to the porch. They go directly against the order of the lawn, but Merlin imagines—as he turns his car off and shuts the door behind him—that was probably the intent of whoever put them there.

He looks at his watch, reading 9:59. Right on time. Nothing left to do but walk up the wide stone steps, approach the large doors and knock.

The second he does so, a freezing chill grips his hand, flows over his arm and down his spine.

**_Go. _**

Merlin's hand retracts like something stung it. In a way, something did. He stills, searching for the voice.

**_Go. You are not needed here. Not _****wanted****_ here._**

The words reverberate through his bones, icy pin-prickles in his marrow. It's altogether unidentifiable, besides the measure of authority in it, the school-teacher-reprimanding-the-child-tone. His kindergarten teacher, who had a cold voice and nasty mole on her chin, pops into his head. _No, Merlin, you can't be in here. This is the _girl's_ bathroom._

Merlin swallows, repressing that memory with an inward smile, and tries for his usual approach.

_I'm Merlin Emrys. I want to help. _

_What has wronged you? Has someone wronged you?_

It'd be nice—though extremely improbable—if he could put the spirit at peace first thing, and over his shoulder call out a "Your welcome!" to the owners as he drives away. But there is no immediate answer. No apparition to appear out of the doorknob, like the spirit of Jacob Marley, ready to tell its tale.

Merlin waits—for an answer more than for the door to open, which has yet to happen either. He stands patiently, a warm breeze filtering past him through the June air and the sun peeking from its usual cloud cover. Then—

**_LEEEEAVE!_**

The harsh, commanding word pierces into his skull, accompanied by a cold wind that blasts him back with unnatural strength. With his feet slipping against the edge of a step and their purchase slipping, Merlin manages—just barely—to not fall as it relents, wobbling against the stone.

Just a moment later, the door opens.

2.

A man opens it, eyes finding a precarious, ruffled Merlin on his doorstep. They stare at each other, Merlin still off-kilter, the man's eyes widening and a brow raising at the sight. After a moment, he clears his throat.

"You're the medium?" He asks, a little incredulously—looking regal and professional in a three piece suit like there's somewhere to be, blond hair carefully swept against his forehead—and Merlin nods, regaining his balance. It's actually psychic medium, but at least he didn't fall on his arse in front of the man.

The man looks him over, expression unreadable. "Right, come in then," he says belatedly after a moment, and opens the door wider in a stiff manner. Merlin walks inside, shaking the man's offered hand on the door mat. Ignoring how lightly the man grasps his hand—_like I'm going to infect him with my weirdness._ Sometimes he wishes it was contagious, to be honest.

"Arthur Pendragon," the man gestures to himself, eyes drifting and plainly assessing Merlin simultaneously. And with possible disdain—Merlin wouldn't be surprised. "I requested you."

Merlin nods. Technically his assistant did, but Merlin knows that's not what Mr. Pendragon means. Essentially, it sets in stone one important truth: Arthur is his employer, for whatever period of time Merlin's here. _Great._

"Well," his employer says after another beat of slightly hostile silence, raising an eyebrow. "You're not exactly what I was expecting."

Merlin mentally looks himself over. He's young, just out of University, at least as tall as this fellow though definitely not so thick. Dark hair, blue eyes, uncommonly talented at tripping on his own two feet even when supernatural winds aren't doing it for him. And then, the other things—the spiky hairdo, arm tattoo, black nails and dark clothing—aren't altogether unusual for a medium, honestly. At least he doesn't wear male makeup. 

So Merlin really has no idea what to say to that comment, and naturally he speaks the first thing that pops into his head: "And who exactly were you expecting? A wrinkly old witch?"

Probably not the best way to start a good relationship with his employer, but that's never stopped Merlin's lack of filter before.

Arthur actually just shrugs—is that even a hint of a smirk he sees?—as if Merlin wasn't far off. Then the man leads him through a door off to the left, into a fancy sitting room and gestures for him to sit. Merlin does so, inwardly cringing as his jeans touch the perfect-looking chair. The whole place looks museum-quality, untouched and unused. _Do people even live here?_

Then Arthur clears his throat, not sitting down himself. His eyes narrow as he looks down at Merlin, clasping his hands behind his back when he begins to speak. "Now," he starts. "Before anything else, really—you need to understand the delicacy of the situation." His voice is at once both business-like and pensive.

"Okay," Merlin agrees cautiously, already mentally filing this with the other "strange and"—potentially—"comical" jobs.

Arthur takes a step forward. "I know people of your kind make your money off of references and broadcasting past successes, but," he wets his lips, "in this case that would be impossible." Merlin raises an eyebrow.

"In this case, you will be paid extra for your silence. To not speak of this to anyone, so long as you can help it." His eyes are boring into Merlin's, making him want to fidget. Because he's already broken that rule.

"My mother knows I'm here," Merlin admits, gaging Mr. Arthur's reaction.

Arthur barely blinks. "Fine. _She_ can know that, then. But as for the rest—"

"—Mr. Dragon," Merlin starts, slightly panicking. Will knows, and if _Will_ knows . . . well, hopefully by discreet the man only means keeping half of Albion unawares.

"Call me Arthur," the man corrects him, looking indignant. "And it's _Pen_dragon."

"Sorry. Arthur," Merlin repeats after him, grinning a little. "I think I'm understanding that you need this all hush hush. Fine." He tries to keep his tone light, and Arthur nods, seemingly pleased. "But," Merlin shrugs, "there's no need right now. In fact, the sooner I understand the situation," Merlin gestures all around them, "the sooner we'll find out a solution to your little ghost pro—"

"_SSSHHHHH_," Arthur overtops him. He's looking around the room anxiously, like someone might have heard Merlin.

". . . blem," Merlin finishes eventually, watching as Arthur rights himself, straightens his tie self-consciously. A staring war between himself and his employer ensues.

Finally the man sighs, looking away from Merlin almost tiredly. His voice grows soft and hush, like some undesirable person would hear otherwise. "I had my assistant give you a call, because . . . " he stops, lips pursed for a moment.

"Well, I guess you know why. Its—what you do, after all. Get rid of those, kind of—pests." Arthur stops a beat, until Merlin urges him on with a nod. "I'm sure you've gotten a lot of superstitious people who really don't need your services—"

"I have," Merlin nods again, giving Arthur a fake scrutinizing expression, as if he could be one of them—and _boy does that illicit an indignant glare from the man_. This Arthur man needs to lighten up.

"But. I _do_ think you have a troubled spirit here, if that's your worry," he says truthfully, then. And makes an effort to whisper the "troubled spirit" part, just so he won't get _SSSHHHHH_'d again.

Arthur's glare immediately wipes off at his words, surprised.

But a second later his employer's suspicious face is put back on, and he stands a little taller, really looking Merlin over. "And how's that?' His brows furrow, but he's looking at the medium thoughtfully—like he's curious despite himself. The corners of Merlin's mouth tug up.

"It just said hello, not a moment ago."


	2. Chapter 2

3.

Arthur stares at him incredulously. "It said . . . _hello_?"

"Not exactly in those terms, but essentially," Merlin smiles. "They usually greet me some way or another. This one just didn't waste any time doing so."

Arthur for some reason looks like he finds this amusing and unlikely. "_Greeted_ you. _Really_."

Merlin nods, and when Arthur's doubtful look remains he sighs. "I'm sure you, Arthur, have heard about people like _me_ scamming people like _you_, as well. The thing is I'm the one getting paid either way, whether you are the one faking, or I am.

"So," Merlin puts his elbows on his knees, rests his chin on his hands. "What can I do to convince you of my sincerity? I hope you've looked at my record, before hiring me?"

Arthur nods a little, though with narrowed eyes. "Yes. You seemed genuine. And had the most false-alarms."

It's true. Half of Merlin's appointments end in him telling people that, sure, there are spirits in their home/garage/office—they're everywhere, really—but he isn't picking up on any disturbances. Any troubled spirits, in need of his help.

Honestly, most spirits are docile folk. They're drawn at first, mostly, to the important places and people from their past life, but it's not like they're trying to wreck the living's lives. Take the woman sitting in that cozy-looking chair near the window right now, looking out over the lawn. He can feel the link as strong as tree roots, connecting her and this house, these people, together. But she isn't bothering anybody. Why would he bother her?

"That's because, most of the time, spirits aren't trying to harm anyone. They're not vengeful or hateful in nature, usually."

Merlin can tell by the weirded-out look Arthur's giving him that he probably should shut up right about now. Considering most people these days don't believe in spirits, or an after-life.

_Well, most_ _living people, at least. _

But this Arthur called _him_—indirectly through his secretary, but still—so the man has to be somewhat of a believer. Or at least considering it as an option..

"Right," Arthur says eventually, shifting his weight. Hands still behind his back. "The rest of what you need to know is pretty simple, really. You start on Monday, around eight. Gwen will help, she had a room prepared for you—Gwen, my wife, who you'll meet no doubt on Monday—and you'll see most everyone else, as well. Her, the servants, security, even the landscapers should you wish.

"Except my sister." Arthur's eyes harden then, jaw taut. "My sister is not to be disturbed, no matter what crazy voo-doo you think you need to do. As far she is concerned, you're a—distant relative, er, relative's friend—of Gwen's," he stumbles, possibly because Merlin's face is a little confused and mostly amused about the "crazy voo-doo" bit. "This is for both of your own goods. _She'll_ freak out if she knows what you are, and then _you'll_ be pestered by her constantly."

"So, make nice with your wife, stay away from your sister, befriend the landscapers." Merlin struggles to keep a nonchalant voice at the last part, cracking a grin when Arthur rolls his eyes. "Think I got it all."

"Good then." An awkward silence ensues. Arthur just scratches at the back of his neck, shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other, so it's apparently up to Merlin to fill the silence. _The man obviously isn't rich off his social skills._ "See you Monday?" Merlin stands and offers a smile, brushing his jeans off for something to do.

"No, you won't." Arthur smiles back sardonically, finally letting his arms drop. Merlin shrugs as he starts walking past him, but Arthur's hand stops him. He grips Merlin's shoulder, a little too tightly, saying, "Make this quick. The sooner you fix the problem, the sooner you get your money. Deal?"

Merlin gives him a look, and then shakes off Arthur's hand. "Yeah. Sure." _Prat._

4.

Merlin is packing his clothes when Will calls.

"You're leaving tomorrow, right?"

"Mmhm," Merlin says, sticking the phone between the crook of his neck. "And packing right now. What's up?" He goes and grabs a Cola from the fridge in the kitchen, putting Will on speaker.

"Just wanted to give you the head's up. Apparently, Elena's worked for your guy before as his assistant, and she says he's a total arse-hole. Complete 'Anal Orifice.'"

Merlin snorts into his drink. "Really," he recovers, though still laughing. "Anal Orifice how?"

"She was serious. Apparently the Pendragons are well-known for firing people on the first day 'round here. But she got sacked from his company simply because _Arthur said she sneezed too much_."

"Man's got to have a sanitary work environment," Merlin offers in a serious tone, finally getting a hold of himself.

"Ha ha Merls. But it's true. I'm just trying to look out for you."

"I know. And there's no need—I met Arthur and am already _completely _aware of his anal orifice-ness, really." Merlin rolls his eyes, screwing the cap to his drink and heading back to his room. His things are strewn across the furniture, normal procedure for packing. "A complete prat. Honestly. The bloke acts like there's a pineapple stuck up his arse."

"_Pineapple?_ Ouch. Elena says you're right on the mark, though."

"She's there with you? Tell her hi."

"Merlin says hi." There is a beat of silence. "She says 'good luck, hope you make it out alive.'"

Merlin lets out an amused breath. "Her confidence is overwhelming." Then the wheels in his head finally turn, reminding Merlin of an important little detail. "The Anal Orifice doesn't want me telling other people I'm there, though. Elena's not supposed to know. _You're _not supposed to know."

"Yeah, but I'm your best mate. Extra privileges."

"Fine. Just don't tell anyone else about it, got it?"

"Mum's the word, Merlin. I swear. Call me this weekend, 'kay? You can take a break from the dead, join the living some night."

They make plans for Ealdor's finest dive—and by finest, of course, they mean greasiest—in which Elena invites herself along, and Will implores Merlin to find a date so he's not "third-wheeling it." Merlin does not really appreciate his best friend's hint-dropping about the "girl dilemma," as Will calls it—circling round to the philosophy the man's had ever since secondary school—that being with a girl is miserable, and being without one is suicidal. Merlin often has to let him rant about it for a while (usually after a break-up) before his friend will shut up and leave him alone.

He sounds pretty content and non-miserable with Elena, right now though, wishing Merlin a good rest of the night—"What's left of it, of course. See ya!"—then Merlin is off the phone, staring at his room blankly before he realizes it's two in the morning and he's expected near eight at the estate.

Why eight in the morning, Merlin cannot fathom. This whole job is the strangest he's ever undertaken. Mostly because he has no idea, really, why Arthur Pendragon has hired him. To be a medium he _assumes_, to contact a spirit that, in this case, seems to be the "disturbance" occasionally mentioned. And what attacked him the second he entered the premises.

But what has made Pendragon Estate, of all places, suddenly home to a malicious ghost? As old as it is, Merlin's never heard of ghost stories or haunted tales about the castle-like mansion. Not that he knows much about the place in general, but still. Usually his clients tell him stories about paranormal activity—doors shutting, voices whispering, things falling. A lot of the time it's rubbish, but then how should they know till he tells them?

That's just when it's something bad. Mostly, he's hired to help someone communicate with their deceased or vice versa, carry one final message to someone they love. "Like a spiritual postman," Will once declared. After three bottles of the good stuff, of course.

So when Merlin gives his keys to one of the security men the next morning—"I'm Leon, met you at the gate last time you came." "Right, hello." "Can I park your car then?"—and walks up the stone steps once more, he's not sure exactly what this Arthur bloke wants of him.


	3. Chapter 3

5.

"You must be Merlin Emrys," a warm voice says, and Merlin turns to see a woman standing next to the bed of lilies, decked out completely in garden garb. She's smiling prettily, dark curls bouncing loose from a floppy hat.

"I'm Gwen, Guinevere Pendragon," she says, and when they shake hands Merlin knows he shouldn't be surprised that Arthur Pendragon has a pretty wife. But that's not what throws him off, really. It's her demeanor—completely opposite of Arthur's standoffish-ness—as she continues, "Lovely to meet you. And Gwen is just fine, don't worry about it," she says as if Merlin already is. "Sorry to greet you this way—Arthur didn't tell me you'd be coming this early." She brushes invisible dirt off her floral apron with gloved hands, embarrassed.

"No that's fine," Merlin assures her with a smile, whilst silently bemoaning the extra sleep he could have had. Why for the sake of everything good and un-early had Arthur said eight, anyways? "You have lovely flowers."

"Thank you. Though. Oh, they're not mine actually," Gwen hurries to amend, raising her hands palm-up toward the bed of lilies. "No, I'm just tending to them this morning. For a friend." She looks a little flustered, biting her lip and flicking her gaze to around the lawn distractedly. "Well. Anyways. You probably want to see where you'll be staying? Arthur didn't tell me how long you'd be here, so I just covered the basics," she continues with a hesitant smile, and Merlin smiles back.

"Sure. Yeah—I mean. Sounds good."

He's a little distracted by the roots he can see thick-woven inside this woman, running in rivulets around him in his head. She's a story of pain, loss weathered out into smooth strength. A fatherly love, a brotherly love, braided into her bone and memory flowing in her system. Her weaknesses, her fears, made stronger. She's lost, he sees, but she's also gained. Merlin watches Guinevere Pendragon closely as they go into the estate, slightly in awe of her spirit.

Which is why he retains nothing as to how to get to his room except that it's on the second floor in the East Wing. Gwen is aware of the farce Arthur has put into place should anyone ask questions—she informs Merlin he is Gwen's, brother's, sister-in-law's, adopted son, _because that_ _will throw people off the scent_—and "The clean linen and towels are in the hallway closet to your left, but if you need anything, really, there's a bell installed here for maid service, I'll be in the study or the gardens usually if I'm not out, and . . . "

A child's bubbling laughter, a little muffled by the door they pass, makes Merlin turn his head. He slows a little, listening to someone probably blowing raspberries on the kid's stomach, based off the other sound he hears. Then a woman's gentle laughter joins the child's, soft and melodic.

"Merlin?" He looks back at Gwen ahead of him, realizing he's stopped. She's looking at him with a strange expression—Merlin can't tell if it's one of worry or apprehension.

He gives one more glance at the door before catching up to her.

Two left turns and three gigantic canvas paintings later, they arrive. Gwen shows him where practically everything is, hovering as she explains that Leon will bring in his things from his car.

"After you've settled in we can sit down and have some tea, or breakfast if you haven't had it already, and maybe get on the same page, since Arthur tends to be a bit closed-off with strangers, especially employees—"

"Tea's fine. Great, actually." Merlin smiles, which she returns slowly.

"Great," she replies, eyes warm. An amiable silence settles in as Merlin turns and looks out the three windows, two on either side of the bed and one next to the bathroom door. The green lawn gives way to vegetation, bright even in the dark gloom of the morning, a large forest spreading into the horizon. No highway, no evidence of modern civilization in sight. Like a faery tale.

He turns back to Gwen when he realizes he's been staring too long, clearing his throat. "We're glad to have you, Mr. Emrys," she says sincerely before he can say anything, clasping her hands together. "Truly—no matter how much of a bully Arthur seems. We're all grateful."

"I think I've handled worse bullies than your husband," he lets out an amused breath, folding his arms.

"His bark is worse than his bite," she concedes, smirking as she pats one of his arms.

Merlin tries not to act as taken aback as he feels, by both their generosity and her friendliness. He's still trying to get over the fact that Guinevere Pendragon is not a stuck-up, pineapple-up-the-arse, complete Anal Orifice too. "I'm going to go check on your things, get the kitchen crew on some breakfast. If you _ever_ need anything I'll be within call if I'm not out in the gardens, so don't hesitate to ask," she says finally, opening the door to leave his room. Merlin stands a good ten meters away as she adds, "You're doing us a real service, Mr. Emrys. Really."

If only he knew what exactly that "service" was. The kind warmth in her brown eyes makes Merlin think he can trust her answer. "Could I ask you something?" Merlin says as he closes the distance. She smiles, nodding.

He _is_ being treated like he's a relative—her brother's sister's in-law once-replaced, or whatever it was. And Merlin understands the need to stay at Pendragon Estate, considering its location. As in, the middle of nowhere. Plus, most malignant activity inevitably happens in the dark hours of night, when a spirit can go about wreaking havoc with incredible ease.

But never, not once in the five years he's begun to really extend his help and turn it into a profession, has Merlin been so confused.

"In any other situation it would be none of my business, but—I, I am a medium, and I can't help wondering why this all needs—well, why Arthur wouldn't talk past terms like 'pests,' disturbances,' and the 'problem' the other day. It's not much to go on, really." Merlin shrugs, half-smiling. "Do you know_ why_ your house might be experiencing supernatural activity suddenly? What might have brought it on?"

Gwen lets out a hesitant breath, and then bites her lip. Her grip on the doorknob looks almost painful.

He takes a deep breath, going in for the kill. "You hired me to get rid of a ghost. Is that why I'm here?"

"Arthur thought you might help," she acquiesces in a cautious tone, nodding.

"Well, what do you think," Merlin urges. "Do you believe there's a spirit in need of help?"

Gwen's face darkens; she lets go of the doorknob finally, gripping her hands together tightly.

"No," she shakes her head, letting out a breath. "No, I don't think so."

Merlin nods, not sure whether to be disappointed or relieved. If she speaks true, he could leave and be rid of Mr. Pendragon. If no spirit is in need of help—if this is another false alarm, if there's nothing really going on, _if that voice when he first arrived was just his_ _imagination . . ._

Then, with a whine and a crash, the door slams shut behind her.

6.

Must have been a blast of wind," Gwen recovers, turning to look at the door. It's so innocently still now it's hard to recall the loud WHAM the wood made hardly a moment before. Merlin nods absent-mindedly to her excuse, walking past her to it.

He twists the doorknob, feeling no give.

"Did you lock it?" He looks back at her, one eyebrow raised. The door still won't budge, and Merlin's using all his strength now, trying to wrench it open. She shakes her head, one hand to her mouth as Merlin pulls on it again.

Eventually he stops, a cold feeling settling in the pit of his stomach as he backs away. Searching through his head, searching with his eyes and seeing nothing. The presence of this spirit is just that; a presence.

A harsh, frostbitten presence.

Merlin feels his skin prickling as the lamp on the bedside table starts flickering, casting strange, half-second shadows of them on the door. Gwen breathes in sharply, and suddenly rushes to the door, banging against it a few times with her shoulder. She pulls the doorknob with both arms, stopping only to look back at Merlin, stricken.

"I'm so sorry," she tells him. The light is flickering on and off her face now, looking more sad than frightened. "I had no idea this . . . "

They both turn their heads, the rest of her words forgotten. On the other side of the door, footsteps are approaching. Clear, insistent, louder by the second. Gwen's face whitens, and she steps back with one hand on Merlin's arm—as if to protect him. _Ma'am, I think I have a little more association with ghosts than you._

She flinches as the footsteps stop, clear outside the door. Gwen is breathing quickly, hand no longer holding him back but digging into the fabric of his shirt. "He must not like you at all," she whispers, likely to herself, since when Merlin whispers back "What?" she doesn't respond.

The door knob starts turning. Even though it's locked.

And then it opens. "Are you two alright?"

Instead of the demon Merlin is expecting, it's more like an angel who opens the door. Well, a dark angel—long dark hair and slate gray clothing, wearing an amused expression and an upturned chin. She's staring at them oddly, and that's when Merlin realizes _he's_ staring. He immediately rights that wrong, looking over at Gwen's relieved smile instead.

"Sorry, Morgana, the door wouldn't budge. Must have gotten stuck from the inside," she laughs breathlessly, shoulders relaxing.

"Really? Strange." Morgana raises an eyebrow, strolling past them. Merlin turns as she passes, not realizing what she's doing till she eyes the lamp.

"What's wrong with this old thing I wonder?" she says, and crouches to the wall for a few seconds. Suddenly the flickering light resolves itself, casting a warm glow once more against the gloom of the morning. Merlin tries not to gape as she stands up again, dusting off her hands with a grin.

"What was wrong with it?" Gwen asks, and the woman shrugs.

"The chord wasn't plugged in all the way," she smirks. Then her eyes, a strange, pale green, flicker to Merlin. "You haven't introduced me yet, Gwen. To your—what was it? Cousin?"

"Oh! My brother's sister-in-law's cousin—"

"Her sister's brother-in-law's step-nephew—"

They overlap one another and stutter into silence, Gwen's face flushing. Not much of a liar, Merlin thinks. Of course, neither is he.

"Ah yes, that's right." Morgana's smirk widens until it becomes a genuine smile, spreading across her face as she shakes her head. "Well, whatever reason Arthur's having you stay, Cheekbones, I hope he's paying you well. I'm Morgana," she tells him with a nod, walking back to the door.

"Mordred's probably wondering why I abandoned him," she shook her head fondly, "but I heard someone banging against a door and thought I'd come investigate and save you, Gwen, from a break-in. Little did I know I'd be saving _two_ damsels in distress." She winks at him.

Merlin rolls his eyes, the corner of his mouth tugging up. "I believe the correct term would be 'dudemar,' actually, as in 'love interest of strong female character, an attractive male with little brain power or skill.'" He's not entirely sure whether that was an attempt to impress, or a part of him truly wants to repel all females of interest. It could, very likely, be the latter.

"So you're the eye candy?" She raises an eyebrow, solemn, like she's considering the idea.

Merlin twists his mouth to the side for a moment. Then nods.

Gwen laughs at the exchange. "His name is Merlin, Morgana, and he's just visiting me for a while is all. Sorry to worry you, but we're both fine. Give Mordred my love."

That was a cue to leave, but Morgana doesn't take it. Her eyes turn to slits, scrutinizing Merlin. It reminds him supremely of Arthur and the dozen once-overs the man gave Merlin just in the time-span of their single conversation. Except Merlin felt like he was a specimen being dissected by Arthur's eyes, and now, well—to be honest, he feels like he's being undressed by Morgana's eyes.

Which isn't necessarily a horrible thing, even if it's a slightly uncomfortable one.

"Well, until we meet again, Merlin," she murmurs finally, leaving with a swish of her hair.

Merlin is probably not the most stable on his feet—not that he ever really is—when Gwen turns to him wearing a slightly amused expression on her face. "That was Morgana, Arthur's sister," she says, as if those are weighty words. But then Merlin remembers. Their weight pulls him back down from the clouds and back into annoying, prattish reality.

That's _Arthur's sister_—the ONE PERSON he's supposed to completely avoid, at all costs.

_Shite._


	4. Chapter 4

7.

The first time Merlin realized was about fifteen years ago, at the age of eight.

He and Will were playing one of the latter's video games featuring Italian guys who ate mushrooms, and Merlin was losing horribly. He didn't mind, though, considering he'd hardly seen Will and now he looked so happy beating his friend. And Will hadn't looked happy for quite a few months.

After defeating the boss—Merlin already used up all his lives and watched comfortably as Will completely conquered, all on his own—Will jumped up from the couch next to Merlin, shooting his game controller into the air with a fist.

And when he jumped, Merlin noticed Will's father who had been sitting beside his son, a grin on the man's face. He was wearing what he usually did—nice pants, button down shirt, shiny watch. He had a five-o'clock shadow, just like the last time Merlin saw him. The man looked over at Merlin, giving him a thumb's up before standing, and leaving. Leaving as in, disintegrating into nothing before Merlin's eight-year-old eyes.

Will's mum and dad had been dead for months. Killed instantly by a semi on their way home from a work party.

When Merlin asked to call his mum and go home early, bile rising in his throat, he could hardly register Will's pleas and complaints much less appease them. He got back to his house within the hour, and promptly threw up in the kitchen sink.

ooOOoo

"It started about four months ago—and that was just the beginning," she sighs, taking her cup off the tray, "but Arthur took it all as silly nonsense until he held a dinner with his new department managers. In the middle of the meeting—well, we took all the other chandeliers down as well, just in case. The one above them fell on the table and shattered everywhere, most of them had to go to the hospital to get glass removed."

She bites her lip, cup frozen halfway to her mouth. "The chain was rusty; that was the logical explanation. But it's happened too many times—lights burning out, doors locking, nasty cold winds blowing out of nowhere," she explains, in a way that sounds like she's more trying to convince herself than Merlin.

"Arthur stopped ignoring the rest of us, and then two weeks ago—"her voice stops, letting out a short breath. She smiles at Merlin apologetically. "Well, Arthur's the best one to ask about that. But afterwards he agreed to consider getting 'professional help,' as he put it. And now here you are."

"This has never happened before, then? In this house?" Merlin's not one for tea; he just holds it in both hands as she sips, awaiting an answer.

"Not that I've heard, or can recall. I haven't been here for very long—Arthur and I have been married a little more than two years, and I'd never spent more than two weeks here before that at a time."

"How long have you known Arthur?"

"Six years. I was his personal assistant for three of them. Then, after we became engaged I decided it best to quit, and a year later I married him and moved here." She takes a big breath before continuing, "In all that time, Merlin, I swear nothing remotely strange happened. It's as if—as if, we've lost favor of this house, and its punishing us for something."

Merlin nods silently, finally taking a sip of his tea quietly. The parlor they sit in now is the same Arthur spoke to him in days before, same stiff decorations and unused furniture. With Gwen in it, however, changed out of her garden garb into dark denim and a frayed-looking, lemon-yellow blazer, sipping tea and looking ever the woman of the house—well, the place looks almost homey, is all.

"I can tell one thing at least," Merlin admits, "Something here is angry. It feels—vengeful, almost. Cold, and bitter."

Gwen looks at him strangely, brows pulled together but eyes wide. "How can you tell? If—if you, would, don't mind me asking," she amends quickly, biting her lip.

The corners of his mouth tug up; _not an uncommon question, that one_. "Same way people feel the emotions of the living, I think. Sometimes it harder to understand, sometimes it just comes. Like now—I don't feel much about whatever it was in the room earlier, except what I told you just now. But other things, like with you, with your brother and father, they just come. Unbidden, in front of me."

He doesn't realize what his words would mean to her till he watches her dark skin pale; Gwen's face looks frozen, mouth tense and stretched, eyes unbelieving.

"My brother . . . and father?" she repeats, jaw working. Merlin nods and she shakes her head, smiles a little. It's a small, sad stretch of lips. "You impress, Merlin," she says after a minute, more composed. "Am I to assume you haven't looked me up, found out about my family that way?"

"You can assume what you want," Merlin shrugs and intends to leave the matter, but he feels a tug. Like a small arm, pulling on his heart. "They miss you just as much, though. Elyan, your brother . . . " Merlin pauses, images flashing behind his eyes. "He wants your forgiveness. For leaving, after your father died. He would change it, if he could." _Shot, in an alleyway, from behind. On the concrete, Gwen's younger face filling his mind. So sorry._

Gwen's staring at him, Merlin realizes as he refocuses, mouth open but unmoving like the words are still frozen on her tongue. "He should have taken your offer, but he was young and stupid. Wasn't thinking about the future, about what consequences his choices would have on his future. Or the possibility it could even be cut short." Merlin swallows, feeling the loss and sorrow this young man held after death. For his sister, for the pain he caused her.

He realizes he's probably gone too far when Gwen puts down her tea suddenly, leaving the room like she's fleeing the plague. Except it's not Merlin's general weirdness that's repelling, in this situation. He knows, in the look she gives him before standing up. Like he's a ghost himself, an unwanted reminder of all the hurt people bury inside themselves. Like he's a foreign weapon, one they've never encountered and never want to get near again.

People don't want to remember.

8.

"Hey, mate. Sorry to interrupt any kind of mourning, but this is my allotted time slot."

Merlin has been exploring most of the day. Which is a little strange, considering most of his jobs involve a thorough, ten minute scour of the premises. But Pendragon Estate is just _so huge_. Up until lunchtime he went through the house—though most of the doors were locked, else he'd probably still be on the first floor—and since then he's been wandering the grounds. Looking for anything, really.

Of course, mediums seem to have a keen sense of where the dead are, because within the hour he's found the family cemetery, about a half mile from the house and on a much smaller, even more secluded hill. It's a lonely little place, and a strange one. Each grave is a cairn, a mound of rocks raised over the ground. There are no other grave markings.

Merlin turns at the voice behind him; it sounds annoyed, sardonic even, like the person is expecting to be ignored.

"Sorry," he says with a slight smile, eyes resting on a young, dark-haired chap with shining black eyes.

The man takes a step back, annoyed expression immediately turning to disbelief. "Woah, there," he says, a cheeky smile splitting his face slowly, "didn't expect that."

"Expect what?" Merlin says, frowning. But a moment later he sees. He _sees_.

"Expect you to answer!" The man laughs, clapping his hands together. There's no sound when he does so. "Guess I should have figured. You look like one of them freaky blokes, mate, one of the special ones. Should have figured." He steps forward, though the uncut grass doesn't part around him. He doesn't make a sound as he reaches Merlin, eyes friendly. "Name's Gwaine."

"Merlin. Sorry—you said this was your time slot, or something?" Merlin raises an eyebrow, and the man laughs again. It's a nice sound, though Merlin can hear now that it's a little echo-ey.

"Naw, this is much better. Can't remember the last time I had a decent conversation, to be honest," he explains, sighing dramatically. "Everyone so far has been _extremely_ dull. But you might have some juicy news. I'm guessing, as you're here, you know the Pendragons?"

"Sort of. I mean, not long, really. Just a couple days," Merlin admits, and Gwaine grimaces comically.

"Damn. I was hoping for some real information," he sighs, and goes over to one of the cairns, pulling himself up and sitting on it. At Merlin's disapproving glance he shrugs, patting the stone. "I can if I want. It's mine." He grins, and the disconcerting sight—a ghost, grinning as he sits on his grave, swinging his heels and lightly hitting the stone—bubbles a snorting laughter from Merlin's chest.

The man smiles as Merlin composes himself, like he takes pride in making people laugh. "You're alright," he says, jumping back down. "Especially that donkey-bray laugh of yours. I bet you can tell me this at least—is Arthur still married to Gwen? Are they still together?"

Merlin's brows pull together. "Yes?" he answers, slightly put off by the strange question. "Yes, they seem to be. Why do you ask?"

Gwaine shrugs, starts wandering around the cemetery. He spins on his heel, walking backwards as he says, "Another thing. Does Percival still work in security?"

"Don't know. A man named Leon does, I think," Merlin answers, but Gwaine waves off his words in mock dismay.

"Of course _Leon_ still does." He sounds almost disgusted by the fact. "But Percy, Percy, I bet he left. Well," Gwaine starts walking toward the exit, throwing his hands in that air, "there goes my plans. And all my time—you distracted me, mate." He smiles at Merlin though, flirting with the gate exit. "Guess I should go."

"Not much of a time slot," Merlin comments, and Gwaine nods with a frown.

"It's usually longer," he says, hand inching to the gate. "Guess talking to you was extra. Damn," he says again, hand finally wrapping around the metal, "too bad. Do me a favor though, will you? Come back, same time."

Before Merlin can answer Gwaine's hand pulls open the gate and he walks through it, disintegrating into nothing like they always do. The gate keeps swinging slightly, a raspy squeaking that hits Merlin's nerves. The cemetery is still besides the sound; no chirping birds, no evening crickets. He goes to shut it, the crunch of his step loud in the brittle grass, but it quickly swings back and hits the latch by itself. Merlin freezes, staring as it unlatches again, swings, then re-latches. By itself.

Or maybe not by itself. Merlin's mind runs in hyper-speed for a moment—remembering what Gwaine said, something about time slots, and it's the end of Gwaine's, _so maybe now the beginning of another_—before he recognizes that cold numbing feeling again. But this time, it doesn't permeate the air, soak the atmosphere around Merlin. It's a bitter, sharp iciness stabbing him, somewhere from behind.

Before Merlin can turn, he hears. The split-second sound of something flying. Then he feels the hard impact against his skull, and the ground is suddenly there, cool against his cheek as his thoughts float away.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: Warning-for blood and stitches? I don't know, so just to be safe.**

**Alright, so technically I'm gone this very moment camping and cave exploring, but I finished this before I left and my sister's posting it for me. So, in short, I'm a nice person. Your welcome.**

9.

"Mr. Emrys. Mr. Emrys? Sir, are you—my, that doesn't look good," a worried, hurried voice wakes him. Merlin squints up at a curly-haired fellow, looking concernedly down at him. Or, more specifically, at his skull.

"Whmm?" Merlin mumbles, bracing his arms against the ground to get up. He feels dizzy, a little nauseous too. But the stabbing, piercing pain doesn't come till he sits up—and then there are throbbing darts, hitting against his skull. "What . . . " _What the hell?_

"Looks like your head got split open by something," the man Merlin recognizes as Leon says, picking up a sharp-looking, plum-sized stone. A small bit of red is smeared on its surface. "This, probably," he holds it up higher, grimacing as he glances at Merlin again. "Let's get you back. You'll probably need stitches."

The back of Merlin's head is pulsing the whole ride down the hill and up to the higher-raised estate. On their drive down in his ride-mower Leon explains he was about to mow the lot, and found Merlin lying unconscious there. Merlin has no idea how long he's been there—though the sun looks lower in the sky, the shadows more elongated. At least an hour, as well as he can guess.

"This is Leon sir," Leon says, phone to his ear as they drive. Merlin really does feel like a _dudemar_ right now, in distress and rescued by a knight in plaid armor, carried off to safety in the knight's trusty, gas-guzzling steed. _How romantic. _

Leon is all business as he explains the situation to whoever's on the other line, however, and Merlin guesses by the irritated cadence of the voice that it's Mr. Pendragon himself. By the time they drive up to the back of the estate, Gwen is there waiting for them. With one hand she's keeping her blowing curls out of her eyes, and the other is wrapped around her waist tightly. As they near he can see the concern in her eyes, the tight press of her lips as she approaches.

"Arthur called Gaius up; he'll be here any minute," she says, shouting over the loud wind. Leon nods, helping Merlin down and towards the house. Gwen quickly moves to Merlin's other side, hand on his arm. He looks down at her, and her smile looks sorry. Not sure if its about their abruptly-ended conversation or just his injury, Merlin smiles back anyway.

"The lounge, that'd be best," she says, and once through the main back door she directs them to a room on the main floor, full of comfy couches and chairs and _a flat-screen if you could believe it_. Merlin must have missed this one in his exploring earlier.

Gwen pulls a towel out of thin air and has Merlin press it against his head, calling into the hallway for ice. A blond girl comes with a bucket of it, half a minute later, and then Merlin pulls the towel away for the ice and _WOW THAT'S A LOT OF BLOOD_. The towel's soaked through where he's been pressing, and dizziness he's been feeling so far intensifies alarmingly at the sight.

An old man walks in about ten minutes after, the handle of a large clear plastic bin in his hand. Gwen breathes a sigh of relief, though she's been assuring Merlin for a while now that the bleeding is slowing down, and directs the man in. Leon left long before that; apparently Merlin is not alone when it comes to the sight of blood.

"Hello there," the old man says politely as Gwen leaves them, looking down at Merlin where he sits. "My name is Gaius; I'll be attending to your head." He raises an eyebrow when Merlin grimaces, knowing this likely means stitches.

"Right. Where do you want me?" he asks, and the old man frowns as he glances around the room.

Merlin ends up lying with his head on the arm of the couch, Gaius on a chair facing it. He can hear the man click open the kit behind him, uncapping something.

"So," Merlin says distracting himself, "You can't live far, can you, seeing as you got here so quickly?"

"I live not too far off, no, near the lake," Gaius replies, and something cold dabs Merlin's head. It stings.

"I'm Merlin," he adds when the man says no more, reaching his hand up behind him. After a moment, he feels a cold, gloved hand shake it lightly.

"Good to meet you, Merlin," he says, and Merlin waits as he hears a clicking of metal against metal. "I'm putting three staples in your head, now." Merlin nods, bracing himself as he feels two fingers pinch his scalp together. "I've been the family doctor of the Pendragons for quite some time," he says conversationally, placing something against his skull. Merlin blinks through the quick pain of the first staple. "But I don't believe you and I have met before."

"You're a family doctor? You mean you come here, they don't come to you?" When the old man hums in affirmation, Merlin lets out an amused breath. "Little old-fashioned of a job, don't you think?"

Another staple.

"I'm actually retired. Or, well, the Pendragons kindly pay for my retirement, and in return I come for whatever help they require. They like they're privacy, you see," he says before punching another staple in Merlin's head. He winces.

"So I've noticed," Merlin agrees, thinking of Arthur and his vehemence about Merlin not telling anyone what he was doing here. _If only I could figure that out for myself. _Though Merlin is, he admits, slowly getting there.

The man wipes something else on the wound, and after the sound of stretching rubber—Gaius pulling off his gloves, no doubt—Merlin feels a light clap on the shoulder. "You're done," the old man says, and Merlin sits up, watching as he re-sterilizes the stapling device and puts it away. Gaius looks up at him, smiling wanly. "Would you like a lollipop?"

A host of images burst at Merlin in a large splash, like a water balloon to the face. One second, it's a bald little girl smiling up at him, then seeing him, younger, at the watcher's funeral, then a whole room of people on their deathbeds, Gaius attending to each, then dozen or so other occasions, watching him care for loved ones.

_The dead love him. The dead honor him._

Its a unanimous voice in his head; a chorus of deceased. "Definitely," Merlin says, to the old man's surprise.

He gets a root beer dum-dum—not his favorite by a long shot, but it'll do—and glances over at Gaius when the old man sighs, having completely packed up his tools. "Two more things," he tells Merlin, and then Merlin notices what his old hands are holding. "First, for the pain," he explains, holding over a pill bottle, "and to fight off infection, once a day." It's Neosporin, and Merlin stands up to take both. When he reaches for them, however, Gaius puts the medicine down and grips his wrist instead.

It exposes a corner of the tattoo on his forearm, and Gaius pulls up his bunched sleeve even further, looking down at the dark ink. Three spirals, curving out from the same center. A white eyebrow raises as Merlin jerks his arm away, feeling a strange urge to pull his sleeve down. But most people, most _normal people_, don't look twice at the symbol.

"That was the second thing," he adds as Merlin backs away, scrutinizing the old man. His watery blue eyes look up at Merlin knowingly, like he's_ seeing_ him. Merlin swallows. "As to the rock that hit your head, young man," Gaius says solemnly, "It looks almost as if you did not fall on it—more like it was _thrown at you_. How do you explain that?"

"Nothing to explain," Merlin answers, confused and still slightly unnerved by the man. "It _was_ thrown at me."

Gaius' eyebrow rises further. "Is Mr. Pendragon lying, then? He said you tripped, and your head hit a rock, in the family cemetery."

Merlin is .01 seconds from rage, fists flying and curse-spitting at Arthur Pendragon, when he remembers quite vividly the moment they first met. Merlin, arms swinging through the air as he righted himself from tripping—on seemingly nothing. Of course Arthur would assume that is what happened in this case as well.

His face burns, mouth tight as he says, "I'm sure Mr. Pendragon thought it a funny image."

A man appears at the doorway just then, at the edge of Merlin's vision. "What do I think is funny?"

10.

Merlin's head snaps to the left, where Arthur Pendragon is leaning against the doorway—red tie loose and suit jacket gone. His eyes are tired, but amused as he looks from Merlin to Gaius.

Gaius recovers first. "Arthur," he says, rising hastily, "I've just finished. Merlin has been an excellent patient, and—"

"And it's nearly dinner time. Won't you join us?" Arthur implores, raising both eyebrows. Gaius sighs, smiling slightly.

"Of course, sir." He nods, and then the old man passes Arthur through the doorway with his case, grasping his shoulder minutely before disappearing into the hall. Merlin's medicine rests on the chair where he sat.

"Merlin Emrys," Arthur says, and Merlin's eyes flick from the medicine to the man's gaze. "Good to see you alive, I suppose. Are you sure you can handle Pendragon Estate? Not a day in and you've passed out." He smirks, and Merlin wonders why he couldn't see the family resemblance in Morgana earlier. In looks they are quite polar, but in demeanor the similarities are uncanny.

He's not about to take that jab without a gripe, though. "Yeah, can see why you're gone all day, seeing as you can't handle it yourself."

The edges of Arthur's smile turn bitter. "I could be gone much longer, easily. Believe me." He sighs, scratching the back of his neck with a grimace. "Just—try not to get knocked out starting tomorrow, right?"

He looks tired, like the day has drained him, but Merlin can see the hints of amusement in the corner of his eyes again. "You got it, sir," he replies, grinning, and when Arthur's face cracks into a smile Merlin adds, "no guarantees for the rest of today, though."

Arthur is still shaking his head at that by the time they all sit for dinner, Merlin freshly showered and grinning at him. Arthur sits at the head of the table, of course, Leon to his right and Gaius to his left. That leaves Merlin sitting next to Leon and Gwen, on the other end of the table—and Morgana directly across from him.

There's an even grander dining room—dining _hall_ being more accurate—somewhere else on the first floor, with about two dozen places, and Merlin is glad the Pendragon household uses this smaller one, even if it's farther from the kitchens. The food arrives precisely at six anyways, a broth-ey soup that everyone sips in-between conversation.

"How's school coming?" Leon asks Morgana politely, and she shrugs, replying "Good" with a slightly tense smile.

"And where is Mordred?" Gwen inquires; Morgana sighs, her smile turning warmer.

"He fell asleep. Figured I'd let him and deal with the repercussions later," she laughs, soft and melodic. "Turns out it was meant to be, seeing as we have an unexpected dinner guest." Merlin flushes, but then he sees her eyes move to Gaius.

"Glad to be here, Morgana. And always good to see you," he says, and the corners of Morgana's smile twitches slightly. She holds it steady as Gwen inquires about Gaius's garden and the two exchange stories about daffodils and chrysanthemums, though after a drink from her glass it's gone. Her eyes catch him watching, and Merlin looks down at his noodles quickly.

"I can't decide," she says. When Merlin glances up is Morgana tilting her head to the side, looking at the top of his head. He raises an eyebrow. "Your hair, I mean. It looked positively intimidating this morning, all sharp and edgy. But now its softer, hits the sides of your face just right, un-styled." The corner of her mouth tugs up.

Merlin indeed has not styled it; he didn't have time before dinner after his shower, plus he is known to get lazy if his hair on occasion lays down right. Because, hey, if it wants to lay flat, than great. But if it doesn't—well, than _none_ of it is going to lay flat.

Morgana sighs, looking quite torn. "And I just can't decide."

"Must we really discuss the different states of Mr. Emrys's hair?" Arthur grumbles, and Morgana shrugs, smirking at Merlin.

"I haven't heard the story yet," she announces later as their bowls are cleared and plates set in front of them. Everyone looks up from the steak and rice, Merlin included, and he finds her eyes on him again. "What exactly hit you so hard in the head?"

She looks almost like she's testing him; Merlin, a little intimidated, deflects. "A really good idea?" He suggests, and both Gwen and Leon laugh.

"Suppose it _would_ have to hit hard, to get through a thick skull like yours," Arthur puts in with a Pendragon smirk, and the face Merlin pulls at his employer stops short when he notices everyone else's expressions. Wide-eyed, like the words were foreign coming out of the man's mouth.

Gwen manages a light, comfortable laugh a moment later and the second-long silence breaks; Morgana smirks and Gaius shakes his head.

"Alright, if we're all done making fun," Gwen rolls her eyes, then gestures to Merlin.

He clears his throat, knowing that the truth can get ugly. But that's never stopped him before. "I was exploring the grounds for a bit after lunch, and I came across your cemetery," he raises his eyebrows at Arthur, who nods mid-chew. "It was empty at first, but then I ran into—well, an old friend of yours, perhaps. A man named Gwaine."


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Back from camping and caving-and finding out I have a fear of caves a few seconds into a long, horrible four-hour cave hike. *Shudder* So, in short, glad to be back! Thank you all for reviewing and following!**

11.

A fork clatter splits the silence. Leon looks down, like he doesn't know he did it.

Arthur clears his throat, loud like there's actually something caught in it. "Gwaine?" he says quickly, shaking his head. Shooting daggers at Merlin with his eyes, like the man's this close to turning those metaphorical daggers into tangible ones magically, and _Merlin better shut up before that happens_.

Merlin leans back a little, confused. But then he sees Morgana in the corner of his vision. Her brows are pulled together; her mouth is slit into a thin line.

_Right. Keep Morgana in the dark_.

If Merlin could more than just mentally slap himself right now, he would. "Yeah. Umm," he stumbles, aware of all the eyes on him, "yeah, well—his cairn anyway. Speaking of, what's with all the cairns? Are you that worried about animals?"

"Family tradition," Arthur supplies, clearly relieved. He still looks slightly murderous, though.

"Oh," Merlin shrugs, taking that as an answer gladly. Morgana's eyes narrow. "Anyway, I was looking at it, with my back turned from the gate, and next thing I know a rock hits my head and I'm out like a light. Until Leon wakes me up, finally, and by then the attacker's long gone."

"Did he take your wallet?" Morgana asks, eyes squinting at him. Like she's trying to see through him.

"No," Merlin blurts before thinking. "No—I, I didn't have it on me," he adds hastily, and now wonders if he actually did.

"A poacher, likely," Arthur says belatedly, and then looks over at Leon. "Check the cameras after dinner. And, if you need to, put on the alarms."

"A poacher?" Merlin asks, confused.

"A mugger would have brought a gun, _Mer_lin," Arthur says, leering his name into something idiotic. "But we get a lot of poachers around here. He might have seen you, picked up a handy rock, and figured it was quicker money than hunting."

"So he's a poacher-turned-mugger?" Merlin asks, one eyebrow raised. Arthur nods smugly, staring at him. Merlin looks straight back.

"Stop saying 'he,'" Morgana protests, interrupting their staring war. "You're all sexist. I think it could have been a girl."

"Why?" Merlin says, a little wary of her answer. _She really thinks I'm a damsel, doesn't she._

Morgana smirks; she probably knows what he's thinking. "Why not?" she throws back. He lets out an amused breath.

"Touche," Merlin shrugs, still smiling. His eyes lock with her pale green ones, and before Merlin realizes it he's in another staring competition with a Pendragon and he _really_ should stop entering.

Gwen shakes her head when she sees them both at it. "_Alright_, you two." She turns to Morgana. "Stop your glaring, you're going to intimidate my guest. Really, Morgana, you're as bad as Uther."

Dead silence. _Dead_. Silence. As in, anything that had been breathing within twenty feet of Gwen's voice stops completely—even Merlin.

He's not sure why. Maybe he picks up on everyone's reactions a second before they actually show; Morgana, still smirking, Leon, watching amused. Gaius and Arthur to his right, out of sight. But the second after, it hits, and Gwen's face drops quicker than anyone else's. Like she's just said a horrible thing.

And apparently she has. Morgana's jaw clenches; her eyes are down as she stands abruptly from the table, pulling her chair back with a screech. The rest of the dinner party watches her go in silence, until she's disappeared around the corner of the doorway.

Arthur is looking down at his rice. "Well done, Guinevere."

His smile when he looks up at her then is as light and icy as his voice, eyebrows raised sardonically. Gwen bursts into tears. The men between her, Merlin included, sit awkwardly between the married couple as her sniffles only break the silence.

Merlin finishes his food rather quickly after that, though not as quick as Leon and Gaius, who both excuse themselves and say they better head home.

"Excuse me," Gwen whispers in a low tone as well, lowering her hands from her face and silently slipping out of her chair. Its only Merlin and Arthur left now—Arthur, who hasn't touched anything on his plate, Merlin sees upon looking up, since Gwen's apparent slip-up. Arthur's eyes are on him.

"And now you've been properly introduced to the Pendragon family," he says with a sarcastic smile, gesturing toward the nearly empty table with a large sweep of his hand. He chuckles grimly when Merlin shrugs, shakes his head before looking away at the door Gwen left through.

Merlin's mouth pulls to the side; he stands, walking to where Arthur lounges moodily in his seat.

"That I have," Merlin agrees without looking down, lower lip pulling up for a moment. He's maybe beginning to guess what Gwaine was asking about, concerning the couple.

His eyes meet Arthur's below him. "The day's gone. It's nearly night."

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "And?"

"And now, I require your help."

12.

Its nine, according to the many ornate clocks scattered around the house and the two in his room, when Arthur knocks on Merlin's door and proceeds to come in. Merlin, in the middle of pulling out all his things, waves the man inside.

"Just finished getting set up," he says, zipping his now-empty backpack. "Did you find what I asked?"

Arthur holds up a pair of scuffed up tenny shoes, cracked and slightly green.

Merlin pulls a face, walking closer to inspect them. "_That's_ what you decided on? Old athletic shoes?"

Arthur looks offended. "I'm very attached to this pair. I won my first college footie game in these."

"I assume, considering there's no other reason to hold onto such disgusting things for 15 years," Merlin says, getting a whiff as he passes Arthur and gagging a little.

"Hardly 15_ years_, Merlin," Arthur rolls his eyes. "I'm not _that_ old."

"Yeah, sure. Well, hand them over, I guess," Merlin says, taking the pair cautiously. He keeps them at an arm's distance as he walks to the other side of his room, where everything is set up, mostly.

Arthur follows, and Merlin can tell by the man's face upon seeing the set-up on the floor that he has some explaining to do. Merlin will admit it all looks a little . . . intimidating. Complicated.

And it _is_ complicated. It takes Merlin the better part of half an hour each time to paint the shapes, the curved pattern, the symbols etched around the circular summoning grounds. Only two positions are empty, and Merlin sets the old shoes in one of them. He gestures for Arthur to sit behind the pair, who does so stiffly. Arthur looks down at the display in front of him—and laughs.

"This is what I meant when I said crazy voodoo," he chuckles, gesturing at the symbols and runes.

Merlin shakes his head, grinning. "This is nothing like voodoo, believe me."

"Oh?" Arthur's eyebrows rise. "Should I take your word for it?"

"Ha ha. Stop stalling. This really isn't that bad—it's actually one of the simplest ways to conjure a ghost. If it works." Merlin chews on his lip, eyes scrutinizing his work for any flaws.

"That brings me to an excellent question," Arthur says. "How exactly does this work? Why did I bring my shoes?"

"Well I'm _assuming_ you brought them because they're special to you. I did say not just anything you've worn. Something with _meaning_."

Arthur waves away his words. "Yes yes. I know, and this is probably the only thing I've ever worn and felt attached to. I care very little for possessions." He folds his arms, stubborn.

"Good. Then your part is mostly done." Merlin shrugs, getting down to business. He turns and lights the candles on either side of the circle with a match, ignoring Arthur's amused expression. "Right. If you're sure, we'll continue," he says, going to turn the two bedside lamps off. Darkness immediately floods the room as he switches off the last one, and when Merlin rounds the corner of his bed back to Arthur, the man's face is decidedly more serious in the small candlelight. Somber, even.

"The point of this is to call the dead, to speak with them," Merlin explains quietly as he takes a seat on the floor across Arthur. "It requires two different people—the messenger and the affected. In this situation, as you've been haunted by this spirit and are the owner of this house, you are the affected. I'll be the one calling to our little ghost friend. Not much is required of you," he adds when Arthur grimaces, looking almost cross, "mostly your presence and your belonging. I'll be doing all of the actual summoning." He takes the bark and leaves that are to his right, making a pile on a small metal pan that rests in the center of the circle.

Merlin gives him a look, and Arthur nods his consent for Merlin to continue. He's staring down at the pile, at his shoes, at the symbols. His eyes follow Merlin's hand when it picks up the candle closest to him, dripping wax in a redundant pattern over the summoning grounds. Merlin waits a moment, then—

"Nothing's happening," Arthur breaks his focus. "Isn't something supposed to be happening by now?"

"Not if you can't shut your gabber," Merlin snaps, annoyed at the interruption.

Arthur puts his hands up defensively. "Just checking," he says innocently. "It's just slow-going work, I guess." But then he smirks.

Merlin rolls his eyes and gets back to business. He drips wax from the candle near him, though just in a small puddle across from the shoes. Then he places his left hand on the wax, ignoring the heat against his skin. It melds his hand to the floor, to the summoning grounds.

Arthur is quiet; Merlin can focus. He takes three breaths.

"Spirit I summon thee, _evoco lemures_, by the Old Religion I bind thee, _larvae manes_, and call for thy presence this night." Merlin stares at the kindling at the center of the circle, readying himself with three more breaths. "Spirit, I summon thee. _Evoco lemures_. By the Old Religion, I bind thee, _larvae manes_. This night, I call for thy presence."

A tiny flare lights in the bark and leaves, catching the pile aflame. The bark's sweet scent fills the air, and Merlin feels confident. _This will work. This will work_.

Arthur sucks in a breath at the flames, glancing from Merlin to the small fire. He says nothing though, as Merlin retracts his hand from the cooling wax and leaves his handprint on the summoning grounds. He reaches out his hands for Arthur's, and almost rolls his eyes when Arthur takes a reluctant moment to do so. As it is, Merlin is concentrating, focusing on the clairvoyance that often comes to him unbidden, and not often on command. But it feels strong and focused, tonight. Like looking through clear water. Merlin repeats himself again, eyes closed and hands interlocked with Arthur's.

It comes.

He feels it the next instant; the same cold iciness as always chills his gut, freezes his marrow. He feels Arthur's grip tighten, and Merlin wonders if he feels it too.

**_Foolish child. _**

**_Leave this house in peace, boy, while I still give you the chance to._**

Merlin's spine tightens; he exhales slowly, trying to ignore the sickening feeling twisting inside him each time more of the malicious words slip into his mind.

_Leave this house yourself, and I'll leave it as well. You've terrorized these people long enough. Go, in peace._

**_You know NOTHING. And I will show you no mercy either. Tell Arthur this: I will not stand idly by. I will recompense._**

Merlin's hands go limp; they slip out of Arthur's as the presence leaves him. He opens his eyes, finding the entire room clothed in night. The candles and burning pyre have gone out—it is only Arthur's eyes, reflecting the dim moonlight, looking at him silently.

"What happened?" Arthur asks, but Merlin is already shaking his head. He makes to get up, turn on a lamp, when Arthur grips his wrist. "_Merlin_," he says impatiently. He glances down at Merlin's forearm, and Merlin feels his heart catch. Arthur is looking at his tattoo, half visible from his sleeve, almost with . . . recognition?

Merlin watches Arthur's face closely, waiting as the man looks at him hard. But then his eyes soften. "Merlin. Tell me." He releases Merlin's arm.

"I spoke with it," Merlin answers before going to turn on the lamp; the room warms in its glow and chases the last of the creeping cold from his spine. He turns back to Arthur, who sits watching him. "Little happened. It had a message though—for you." He watches for the man's reaction, but Arthur disappoints. He only nods, _as if he gets supernatural messages on a daily basis_.

"What is it, then?" Arthur asks calmly, standing.

"It said 'I will not stand idly by. I will recompense.' That mean anything to you?"

Merlin watches his face closely, suspicious when the man merely shakes his head and dusts off his slightly wrinkled trousers. "Not really," he shrugs, and then glances down at the old athletic shoes. "I think I'm still a little confused," he changes subject. "Why exactly was _this_ needed for your . . . _ritual_ thing?"

"I needed you to be emotionally linked to the summoning circle," Merlin answers. "Plus things people wear a lot tend to keep traces of them in it. For instance," he smirks, "your horrible foot smell."

Arthur looks indignant. "My feet _do not stink_."

"No more than the average arrogant, self-important ass I'd reckon," Merlin grins. "You'd best head to bed, if you're leaving as early as you said," he adds before Arthur can gripe his jab. But if Arthur does get up at 4:30 in the morning to be at work at 6, till basically 6 in the evening, Merlin speaks true. _It's no wonder he said eight for this morning. That's probably _sleeping in_ to him._

"So eager to get rid of me," Arthur shakes his head, but his eyes look amused as he take his shoes and heads to the door.

Then Merlin remembers. "Arthur?" he calls as the man opens the door. Arthur _hmm?_'s in answer. "Gwen told me this morning that something, two weeks ago, made you believe that you needed my help." After a moment, Arthur nods silently.

"What was it?" Merlin prompts eventually, trying to keep the curiosity out of his voice. Arthur looks at him hard, and then turns the door knob.

"Good night, Merlin," he says shortly, and closes the door behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

13.

At first Merlin thinks Monday night was a good start. Sure, he makes little to no headway concerning the malignant spirit terrorizing the Pendragon Household, but he's made contact. And after a good number of nights, he can A) convince the spirit to leave in peace, B) find out what is causing it to lash out and help it find peace, or C) forcefully exorcise.

Of course, his progress takes a definite backward turn almost immediately. Two more nights—two more of Arthur and his skeptical, amused attitude, two more Merlin spends creating summoning grounds, two more cleaning them up after an hour of nothing. More and more, nothing.

By Thursday morning Merlin knows it's time to take a different approach. For one, he hasn't heard a word or felt a thing from the spirit for more than 48 hours. For another, he can't use his bathroom anymore; Tuesday morning he turns the faucet on his toothbrush, only for black liquid to gush onto it. The shower follows suit—and thank goodness he decides to test that one out before standing under it. Plus, his room smells almost permanently like smoke now, the sweet smoke from the pyre, except mixed with something dead, almost like—

"Weed. I've figured it out. You're Arthur's drug dealer."

Merlin jumps, turning to find Morgana in his doorway. She looks triumphant.

"Weed?"

"Weed. You two have been holed up in here the past three nights, and I've thought about the options," She puts her hands on her hips, smirking. "You're either Arthur's pity project, his not-so-secret lover—" Merlin makes a gagging face that she ignores, "—or his drug dealer. Or at the least, his fellow druggie."

"I'm not," Merlin shakes his head, laughing.

Her head cocks slightly. "You _haven't_ been smoking pot in here. Interesting. What do I assume this nasty, sweet smell in here is, then?"

"You caught me. I smoke—I'm a chain smoker."

"You're not a smoker. Or at least, this isn't cigarette smoke. Believe me—I would know," she half-smiles, shaking her head.

Merlin raises an eyebrow. "You would?"

"Yes. Very well. I smoked for four and a half years. Which I guess isn't that long compared to a lot of people," she shrugs, "but long enough for me to recognize it anywhere."

"What made you quit?" he asks out of curiosity.

"Mordred," she answers, this time with a genuine smile.

He raises an eyebrow. "This Mordred must be a character. I hear you mention him practically every time we've spoken, or someone asks you about him, but I've yet to meet him. Does he live here, with you?"

Merlin's just being curious, he tells himself. _Nothing to do with the only _slight _uncertainty whether this Mordred is the very-lucky boyfriend or not._

She gives him an odd look. "Yes, of course."

It was a valid question, though. Morgana hasn't shown up to dinner the past two nights since Gwen's seemingly harmless but oddly catastrophic comment, so he's seen little of her and absolutely none of her boyfriend/lover. And for the little they _have_ crossed paths she hasn't said a word. Which makes it all the more surprising that she's here, talking to him at 10:30 in the morning, completely friendly.

Then Morgana's face brightens. "Would you like to meet him?"

"Sure," Merlin shrugs, though inwardly conflicted on the idea. He's very very curious, but also very very jealous of a person he's never met. Which is a little pathetic.

Morgana beckons for him to follow, turning on her heel back into the hallway. Merlin is still in his pajamas—because _this_ is his idea of sleeping in, unlike Arthur—as he trails behind her for a couple minutes. He makes a commendable effort to not _look_ look at her, especially with the prospect of meeting her boyfriend in his head. But it's hard, considering the very interesting and not unappealing way she walks.

"I didn't escape notice that you've dodged the drug subject, by the way," Morgana teases over her shoulder. "I _will_ figure it out." Merlin just shakes his head. _Not if Arthur has his way, you won't._

They end up at a door Merlin slightly recognizes, though it's honestly too early for him to remember why. Maybe he's noticed the canvas painting across from it enough, passing by—a scene of night, two figures on either side of a well. Merlin glances at it, and then back at Morgana who has stopped, waiting for him to catch up.

"Mordred?" she calls after he does, and they both walk inside. Merlin scans the room, taking in the muted earth tones and bright greens of the furniture and walls. A slightly cluttered desk with a laptop on it is just ahead, and a mini-cooler. And a corner with comfy chairs and the second flat-screen he's seen in this house.

But no man, lounging in her bed half-dressed, like Merlin expects.

Sound comes from an open doorway, connecting the bedroom to another room, and Morgana holds up a finger for Merlin to wait before walking over to it. "Mordred," he hears her say, and it sounds more like addressing someone now instead of calling. When she turns around, Merlin stares a little, uncomprehending.

She's holding hands with a chubby little child, directing the toddler into the room with a smile-glance at Merlin. "Say hi, Mordred," she tells her son, who looks unmistakably like her, and a tiny hand waves a little at Merlin.

"Hi, Mordred," Merlin waves back.

14.

Mordred is still in pajamas too—dragon pj's, _because Morgana obviously gets her child nothing but the best_—and Morgana tells Merlin "Entertain him" as she disappears through the doorway again to "get Mordred some day-clothing."

That's how Merlin ends up sitting cross-legged across from the child, who's staring at him silently. "So, Mordred, how old are you?" He tries first, and Mordred hold up 2 fingers solemnly. And then, the knuckle of one.

"Two . . . and a half?" Merlin guesses, though the child doesn't confirm it. He simply looks at Merlin, with the familiar Pendragon "sizing-up" stare. Merlin takes the initiative to do as well, and notes Mordred has a dark head of hair, like Morgana, though it's a mess of curls. The mother and child also carry the same pointed chin, evident even despite the toddler's remaining baby chub, the same eye shape and lips. His nose is a little different, though—and his eyes are wide and blue, staring at Merlin solemnly.

He looks quite serious, quite put together for a toddler wearing dragon jammies. Obviously not what Merlin had guessed. But there can't be blame that Merlin assumed Mordred was related to Morgana in an entirely different sense of the word, seeing as the woman looks pretty young to have a child—even a two (possibly two-and-a-half) year old one. He finds himself slightly confused, and mostly relieved.

Suddenly Mordred holds his hands out—reaching towards Merlin's face, and interrupting his train of thought. Relieved that the kid isn't just going to stare at him the entire time, Merlin leans forward so the child can reach, assuming Mordred will want to pat his cheeks, squish his lips together or something.

Instead, the toddler starts tugging on his ears.

_Figures_.

Merlin lets him though, content that at least the child looks entertained now. After a good amount of tugging, Mordred pushes his ears against his skull then, and lets go quickly to watch as they—for lack of a better word—flap back into place. He does it a few more times, and right when Merlin's decided that's enough humiliation for one day, even by means of a 2-and-a-half year old child, Mordred's solemn little face breaks into a grin. He laughs, a high, bubbly little boy laugh.

Merlin can't exactly ruin the fun now, can he?

Morgana suddenly rushes into the room, gray little sweats and one small tennis shoe in her hands. Her eyes locate the pair of them, Mordred still doing that flapping thing to Merlin's ears and Merlin leaning forward and letting him, and the surprise in them immediately softens. Merlin, meanwhile, feels his face go aflame having been caught in such a compromising situation. Mordred notices his mother as well, and reaches forward to tug on Merlin's ears one more time, smiling at Morgana as he does so. Like saying, _hey Mummy come try this, his ears are ridiculously hilarious_.

Morgana smiles at her son, and then looks in wonder at Merlin. "I heard him laugh," she says, shaking her head, "and thought I was going crazy."

"Why?" he asks as Mordred loses interest and heads back to his mother.

She shrugs, smiling a little sadly. "He just—doesn't, that often. With me, he will I guess, occasionally. With others . . . " Morgana gives Merlin a slightly-comical pained expression, shaking her head. "Let's just say, _Gwen_ is convinced Mordred hates her."

"Gwen, of all people. Strange," Merlin answers, surprised. "She seems so—so. I don't know."

"Motherly?" Morgana supplies, and Merlin nods. "Yes, well, maybe it's just such a mental shock for him, being in the presence of perfect maternal love." She smirks.

"I'm _positive_ you're not a horrible mother, Morgana," Merlin shakes his head. He remembers her offense Monday night and adds, "Or horrible at all really."

At that Morgana's eyes flash. She ruffles the top of Mordred's curls, the ghost of a smile still on her face. "Opinions are that—opinions," she says breezily, and proceeds to guide Mordred into the other room. "Just dressing him, then you and I can make breakfast," she calls over her shoulder.

Merlin finds the unfounded cliché of "you and I" and the feelings it supplies to mushy people—well, not so unfounded.

A couple minutes later she reemerges with Mordred slung at her hip, out of his jammies and wearing a little T-shirt with the Tardis on it—reaffirming Merlin's theory on Morgana's clothing standard: only the best. Merlin gets up from the chair he waited at, and the three of them head downstairs to another part of the house he has little more than glimpsed into.

The kitchens are big, full of stainless steel appliances, four ovens, five islands, six sinks, two pantries, a freezer room—Merlin stops trying to count everything when he bumps into a blond girl carrying a pot of carrots and nearly sloshes half the water on the both of them. Apologizing swiftly, he catches up to Morgana, who is putting Mordred in a high chair at the very end of the kitchens and strapping him in. She gestures Merlin over.

"Peel and dice," she commands, holding out an pear and a knife. Merlin obeys, watching as she cuts up strawberries, kiwis on and bananas in about the time he finishes the pear. Morgana takes the pear chunks and adds all of her chopped fruit together in a bowl, sprinkling a shaker of what's probably sugar over the mix and setting the bowl, wrapped, in one of the fridges.

She comes back with a carton of eggs among other things, gesturing at one of the electrical stoves. "Omelet time," she says, and pulls open a cupboard. She takes out two pans, one for each of them.

Eggs Merlin can do. He cracks open one and then another confidently, adding things Morgana places on the table. He grabs for another from the carton, reaching over Morgana—and her hand stops him.

_Do not tell me _another_ person is staring at my tattoo_.

Turns out she isn't, though; her brows are pulled together, eyes looking at the egg he's grabbing for. "Not that one," she says in a strange voice, and as Merlin pulls his hand back slowly she takes it, moving over to a nearby trash can. Merlin watches, at first wondering whether she's gone crazy.

Then Morgana cracks the egg open, and immediately there's a distinctly wrong characteristic to the insides. That is—the insides are bright, gooey red. "Gross," Morgana says lightly, tossing the whole thing in the trash with a comical grimace. "Glad you didn't put that in your omelet."

"Me too," Merlin says numbly, not slightly weirded out. "How could you tell?"

He feels more than sees her freeze, just for a second, next to him. Then she's back to grating zucchini onto her omelet calmly. "There was a little blood on the side of it, opposite you," Morgana shrugs, smiling at him brightly. Merlin nods, shrugging as well and deeming the morning a strange one. First, Morgana is friendly with him. Next, Mordred turns out to be two (possibly two-and-a-half), not a youthful 30 or something. Now, he's the damsel in distress again.

Merlin _refuses_ to put that one under any other category besides 'Out of the Ordinary.'

"Just getting breakfast now, are we?" Merlin turns to see Gwen walking toward them, smiling softly at them all. She waves animatedly at Mordred, and the child glowers back.

"We can't all be budding flowers at the crack of dawn," Morgana replies defensively, though she's smiling. It appears the two of them are not on bad terms after that dinner, if they ever were.

"Well, after you eat you should come run errands with me," Gwen says. "I think Mordred and you should get out of the house for at least a little while."

"How considerate," Morgana laughs, flipping her omelet expertly. "But don't leave out poor Merlin. He's been cooped up here doing heaven knows what almost as long as me." Her eyebrow rises on the "heaven knows what" part.

"Would you like to come?" Gwen says brightly to him, putting a hand on his arm. "Though it may be dull for you," she retracts her arm, looking worried, "I don't know, I'm not male. What sounds worse: entertaining yourself here or entertaining yourself while we shop?" She bites her lip, her brown eyes twinkling amusedly.

Merlin laughs. "I'll tag along," he agrees, putting his omelet on a plate. "If you two ladies don't mind."

"Don't worry, if you get too drab we'll send you and Mordred to the mall play-place together," Morgana smirks, and Merlin rolls his eyes, smirking back. Two things he's probably done more at the Pendragon Estate collectively than his whole life previously combined.

"Well, great. You three hurry up and eat," Gwen says, patting both their backs and ruffling Mordred's curls before leaving. Mordred shrinks back almost immediately, looking grumpy up until Morgana places small portions of omelet and fruit salad in front of him later.

Merlin and Morgana eat across from each other at one of the many counters, and there's a growing pile of questions cluttering his head, begging to be asked. _Who's the father? Why did you have a kid so young? Why do you live here? _

_Who's Uther? Why wouldn't Arthur want you to know what I am?_ The last one inevitably unsettles him most.

"Something on your mind, Merlin?" Morgana pauses, looking closely at his face.

He smiles, hopefully shuttering the burning curiosity that had likely been shining through. "Nope."

They finish their omelets in silence.

**A/N: Okay, yep, flaming Mergana throughout this one. I promise more diverse character interaction next time!**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: This is late coming, but here it is anyway! Thanks for your patience, your reviews are just AWESOME. Enjoy :D**

15.

Merlin's first year at uni was a difficult one, and in one way more than any other.

He still had heartbreak in the back of every thought, every emotion. Still raw and painful from months previous. But he continued on regardless; started his Business Major, paid his rent and roomed with Will, dated a girl named Cara. It all worked out for the most part, till it got worse.

_It_, referring to his sight of the other world. The afterworld. Instead of fading, like told in accounts of what children with the gift often experienced, _it_ was growing stronger. He couldn't look at someone anymore, not really, without _seeing_ them.

And he was going mad because of it.

Will understood. Will made excuses for him when he declined invitations to parties, walked away mid-conversation with someone, spent entire days in his bed and missed class. He was spiraling down into a maniacal hermit state. But though Will covered his tracks, he also hounded on Merlin every day—to "eat something for your own sake," to "get off your bum and study for your test."

To "_do_ something about it."

What could he do? It was a lot like ignoring a limb, trying to forget one of his arms was attached to him. He couldn't just stop using it, stop _feeling_ it there. Cara kept asking him to go see a psychiatrist, see if he might have chronic depression after the devastating events of his last year in secondary school. Then, after he shook his head or made excuses, she would hint and suggest to him that maybe this was something else, something deeper. Suggest that he talk to her about it, so she could truly help him. The look in her vivid blue eyes was so knowing, so understanding . . .

He told her, despite Will's disapproval. Cara didn't even blink.

ooOOoo

"Merlin?"

Merlin raises his adorned head above the clothing aisles, meeting Gwen's amused eyes. "Yes?" he grins, pulling off the pink, furry hat he has on. Mordred makes a noise of protest below him.

"Morgana and I are about done. Could you bring Mordred and meet us at the dressing rooms?" she asks, and leaves once Merlin gives her the thumbs up. He puts the hat back on quickly, crouching to his feet at Mordred's level again.

The kid is wearing a cotton-candy-blue hat with two eyes sticking out of the top. All four eyes look at Merlin for a moment before Mordred makes a decidedly un-two year old sound and switches the hats he and Merlin are wearing. Then the corners of his little mouth tug up, satisfied. _Apparently the blue, goggly-eyed hat suits me better._

"Let's go find your mum, kay Mordred?" Merlin says after a minute more trying on hats, putting them back on the racks. Mordred immediately looks sullen, but he lets Merlin pick him up.

After a bit of searching Merlin finds the dressing room, just as the two women emerge laughing with each other. "Merlin!" Morgana calls upon seeing him, though her eyes are on Mordred. "Did the little man have you running after him end to end again?"

"No actually," Merlin shakes his head and sets the child down. "This time I managed to distract him with some hats."

The past two stores required "serious shopping," as Morgana put it solemnly, and so Mordred was put in the charge of Merlin. And gave him a good cardio workout, sprinting this way and that to narrowly pull the child out from the paths of legs and shopping carts alike. Now Merlin sees what Morgana meant by serious shopping as they put high heels, expensive perfume and fancy bras in the cart. He feels his face go slightly hot when Morgana catches him eying them, and she winks at him.

"I think I understand the 'serious shopping' hint now. Hoping to get busy?" He says it a light, joking manner—easy for them to roll their eyes and scoff at.

But Morgana's eyes sweep up and down him, serious. "I don't hope, Merlin. _I plan._"

Merlin isn't sure whether to be enticed or alarmed, and she immediately starts laughing at whatever expression on his face has combined the two.

They have lunch at the food court, Morgana holding Mordred in her lap and feeding him chips and chicken. Merlin's munching on his second burger when Gwen comes back with a disgustingly (as far as Merlin's standard on food goes) healthy-looking salad, looking down at her phone.

"We have an extra stop to make," she announces, looking up from the screen upon sitting down. Morgana raises an eyebrow. "I texted Gaius before we left, asking if he needed me to pick up anything while I was out, and for once he responded." Both the women smile knowingly then, looking amused.

"Is that funny?" Merlin asks, confused, looking between the pair of them.

Gwen shakes her head good-naturedly. "It's just—well, he doesn't text very often, if he can help it. When he does, it's usually . . ." she doesn't finish, shaking with silent laughter.

"Let me see it, Gwen," Morgana says emphatically, smiling widely. Gwen hands the phone over, and after a few seconds Morgana is laughing as well. The sound reminds him of a quiet bell, a soft melody.

And that comparison is probably a little off, but it pulls from the back of his head a distinct memory—hearing that same laugh as he was shown to his room, Monday morning. The pieces click together, and he remembers. It explains why he heard a child, Merlin thinks as he glances at Mordred, and why that certain door was slightly familiar.

Morgana hands the phone to Merlin, interrupting his thoughts, and gestures for him to read. He looks down and sees a long, strange text.

That is very sweet in you  
Gwen are you actually have  
a few things from Alice  
Apothecary In need forget  
come give you a list if you  
call me sugar. Thanks Gaius.

The girls immediately start laughing when he glances up, a bemused look on his face. "That one is _mild_," Morgana says between breaths, eyes crinkled in amusement. "One that Gaius sent to Arthur asked him to _'Come over and cup me between chats.'_" Merlin's eyes widen comically.

"He hates the keys for typing the letters," Gwen explains, and Morgana nods, "he says his old hands can't figure them out. So Arthur thought he was _helping_ when he bought Gaius a phone with voice recognition. But, well . . ." She shakes her head fondly.

"What do you think he meant to say?" Merlin asks, reading the text over again.

"'Come over and cup me between chats?' He _says_ he meant 'Come over and have a cup of tea, we need to chat.'" Morgana shrugs, still smiling.

"I think Merlin meant _this_ text, Morgana," Gwen says, giggling.

"I did actually," Merlin concedes, "though I'll admit I was curious on that other one as well."

"Well, to be honest I'm not entirely positive," Gwen bites her lower lip, moving to stare at the message over Merlin's shoulder. "Something about calling him for a list, and Alice's Apothecary." She looks at Merlin and Morgana, brown eyes twinkling. "Definitely not sure what the "call me sugar" part was about."

16.

Alice's Apothecary is many things. But, Merlin thinks as he walks through an aisle, mostly . . . smelly. Gaius's list is extensive and very strange, when Gwen calls him to ask for it, and the items Merlin undertakes to search for—hogwort, feverfew, hollyhock, fenugreek—leads him to the back aisle, where everything gives off even more peculiar odors and requires weighing in measurement.

He only hopes he has the right amount of everything when Gwen checks out for them and loads the paper bags, vials and bottles into the boot of her yellow Mini Cooper. As she drives back onto the main road Merlin asks, "Does Gaius live close to the house? Or just close, in comparison to everywhere else?" It took them the better part of an hour to reach the shopping center, making Pendragon Estate almost as far away from _anything_ as his hometown.

"It's a ten minute drive between the house and Gaius's place," Gwen says, shrugging. "So—yes to both, I guess."

The ten minutes tacked onto the drive aren't noticeable to Merlin, who shudders awake out of a hazy dream when the car turns off an hour later. He looks over and sees Mordred watching him from his booster seat, blinking sleepily as well.

"You two have a nice nap?" Gwen asks over her shoulder, unbuckling and grabbing for her purse. Merlin grins, nodding as he stretches. It looks as if Mordred almost—_almost_—rolls his eyes._ Morgana was not kidding about him hating Gwen._

They all climb out of the car and Merlin blinks upon seeing Gaius's house. He doesn't know what he was expecting, but he doubts it was anything close to the strange structure. The lot is shrouded by trees and shadow, the evening sun barely illuminating a tall, brick tower through the dim. They approach a small door on the side of the circular structure after taking Gaius's requested things out of the boot, Morgana knocking on its wooden frame.

"Come in!" A muffled voice says, and when Merlin follows after Gwen he takes in the round room, eying the odd trinkets cluttering the old man's house and up his stairs. Merlin's eyes flicker across book shelves and bottles, a dusty duster and a cracked horn, and . . . Merlin notices what probably should have gone unnoticed: a horse shoe embedded with onyx and sapphire, pointing up and mounted above the sole window. He walks closer, squinting at the simple design and precious stones. Merlin has seen such a talisman before, many times, starting one day years ago, the night after he'd told Cara the truth, and many nights after—

"An old family relic," a clipped voice interrupts his thoughts, jolting Merlin to the present. He turns and sees Gaius at the base of the stairs, hands clasped in front of him. His expression is unreadable, eyes on Merlin. "Not sure where it came from, really, but pretty to look at."

Merlin nods silently, trying to clear his face when both Morgana and Gwen shoot him puzzled glances.

"We brought everything," Gwen cuts in, and Gaius breaks their gaze to look at her. "I wasn't sure about the _kind_ of slug repellant you wanted—"

"I'm sure whichever you picked will be fine," Gaius waves her off, suddenly friendly. "I'm sorry. How are all of you? Please sit down, I'll make us some tea."

"Oh, no need, Gaius—" Morgana says with a polite smile, but he interrupts again.

"No, I insist. You all make yourselves comfortable," he articulates, casting a strange smile at all of them before hurrying up the stairs. They all find a seat in silence, till Morgana raises an eyebrow.

"Well that was . . . odd," she finishes, bouncing Mordred on her lap.

"He's usually so particular about his list," Gwen adds, shaking her head.

Merlin is hardly paying attention. He's looking around the room, and feeling in increments more and more unsettled as his eyes sweep across the shelves. Books like _The Weiser Field Guide_ and _Wicca Book of Pentacles and Moon_ are enough to turn his head, but the _Pagan Ritual Prayer Book_, _Of Crone, Mother and Maiden_, and most concerning, _The Grimoire_ . . . Merlin has only ever seen one copy of said book. In the hands of the author.

"—Don't you think, Merlin?"

Merlin tears his gaze from the bookshelf, looking at both of the women and unsure who has spoken.

"Don't you think the weather has been holding out nicely, Merlin?" Gwen repeats politely, and he hurries to nod.

"Sure, yeah." He leans back, smiling. "We've definitely been lucky, so far at least." His right leg starts shaking of its own accord, and Merlin wonders distantly if he at all resembles a canine as his eyes glance furtively at _The Grimoire_, away, and back again.

"Are you alright?" Morgana says, brows pulled together.

Before he can reply, Gaius's voice calls down to them from the stairs.

"Merlin! Could you come up here and help me bring down the tea?"

"Alright," he flashes a grin to Morgana as he stands up and passes her, almost relieved to get a moment alone with Gaius. He can feel their eyes on his back as he mounts the rickety, spiraling staircase, and after a few seconds reach the second floor.

It's obviously the kitchen, though nearly as strange as the parlor below. The floor is primarily blockaded in plant plots, the counters and table covered in bottles and more books. Light filters from double windows into the dusty air. Gaius is next to an ancient stove, checking on his kettle.

"The tea's not done," Merlin guesses, and Gaius turns, giving him a tired glance. He nods.

"Not quite yet," Gaius says, crossing to Merlin and pulling out one of the chairs at his table. He has to pull off a flowering plant before Merlin can sit.

Then Gaius is looking down at him—calculative, testing, wary. Like Merlin's an unidentified specimen, either poisonous or remedial.

Merlin cuts to the punch. "You have genuine Druid text on the Triple Goddess in your library."

Its not an accusation, just a statement.

And Gaius nods again. "You have the mark of the Druids on your right arm."

Merlin can't help the small smile that forms on his lips. "You have a relic talisman hanging on your wall," he counters.

Gaius harrumphs. "You have the Mark of Nimueh."

Merlin's blood drops cold a few degrees.

"You couldn't have—"

"An educated guess, "Gaius informs, lips pursed. "And based off what we now have confirmed of each other, it is _essential_ I speak with you."

Merlin's mind is turning too quickly to respond. How the old man would know of such a mark, much less that Merlin carries it on his skin—right above his heart—is unfathomable. Unless . . . unless. Just behind his eyes he can see Gaius, Merlin's clairvoyance flipping the image. The future is derailed for the old man, but the past is more heavy and present than . . . well, the present. A lot like Merlin.

"You are a Druid," Gaius is saying, wringing his hands, "or _were_ one before you started this business of yours. And that being said, you are in great—_peril_, being here. With these people." Unconsciously he's moving closer to Merlin, who's staring at him in confusion.

"I don't get what you mean," Merlin replies, shaking his head. "They asked for me to be here."

"But if they were to find out _what you are_—"

"They _know_ what I am!" Merlin's hands fly up of their own accord, his heart beating in a stunted rhythm.

"They may know you can speak with the dead," Gaius replies slowly, "but if Mr. Pendragon learns of your past, of your title, _Emrys_, you will regret it."

"What? What's the worst he could do—fire me?"

Gaius shakes his head, grave. "He'll _kill you_."


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Warning—minor descriptions of sexy times ;) But I think you'll all be okay.**

**Your reactions were to be expected, and understandable, considering the last line of the previous chapter (sorry about that). But I'm going to ask a frustrating thing of you—patience. Thank you, thank you, All, for continually reading and waiting and especially, REVIEWING! (It just helps)**

**P.S. That guest review was . . . amusing.**

17.

"Kill me?" Merlin repeats, incredulous. Arthur may be a prat, but there's nothing to hint at him being a homicidal one.

_Well, except for that eye dagger look._

Merlin tries again, when Gaius just frowns. "What do you mean, ki—"

"Are you two alright up there?" Gwen calls, startling them both. Merlin forgot there was even anyone down there.

"Just fine, Guinevere!" Gaius recovers first, bustling over to the tea kettle. Merlin watches numbly as the old man pours the steaming water into cups, adding in odd, homemade-looking tea bags. He shakes his head at Merlin's questioning look, obviously done with the conversation. _For now_.

Merlin is not going to let this go, let Gaius off without a thorough explanation. For suspecting Arthur capable of _murder_. He brings the tray down silently, Gaius in front of him.

He sits stiffly upon handing out the tea, and doesn't take part in the small talk Gaius, Gwen and Morgana divulge in, the latter two sipping politely. Merlin, for one, doesn't like tea in general and this tea is _horrible_. But mostly, his brain is too busy working over their conversation, trying to figure out the puzzle spreading out before him.

The pieces have to fit together somehow. Something connects everything—Morgana in the dark on Merlin's true mission, Gaius's strange warning, Arthur's secrecy. Merlin is seeing everything, but through clouded, corrupted water. There's something yet to understand.

"Looks as though the rain won't hold out any longer," Morgana is saying, eyes flicking up to the window. Soft patters hit the glass, and Gaius stands to peer out of it.

"And the sky doesn't look too good." He turns back to them. "You might want to leave before it starts, I think. When I went outside this morning, I could tell today would be a stormy one. As the old proverbs say, _when grass is dry at morning light, look for rain before the night_."

"I doubt that's a _proverb_, Gaius," Morgana teases, rising. "Though I do agree we should get going. Grab Mordred, would you?" she asks Gwen, around whom Mordred is running circles.

They all get up, Mordred squirming in Gwen's arms till she hands him over to his mother.

"Have a nice evening, Gaius," Gwen says over her shoulder, opening the door.

"It won't be," Gaius harrumphs, "not with all the leaks in my attic."

The girls laugh, patting his arm as they pass and pull up their hoods, bracing before heading into the light rain.

Merlin makes to follow when he feels a light hand on his shoulder. "Another proverb for you, Merlin," Gaius says behind him. Merlin doesn't turn.

"_The sudden storm lasts not three hours_."

He lets go, and Merlin hurries into the rain, neck prickling.

The word of an old man, head riddled with age. Merlin tries to convince himself of that as he hurries through the rain to the parked car. Never mind the signs, clues hinting at the likelihood that Gaius might know more than anyone else. Maybe not what unleashed a malignant spirit on the household—but perhaps what Merlin is facing. _The sudden storm lasts not three hours._

So when it hits, it will be quick.

In the time it takes for Mordred to be put in his booster seat and Gwen to put the car in reverse, the rain is pelting onto the windshield, blurring Gaius's retreat into a mess of green and brown. No one speaks, though Gwen's fingers have the wheel in a death grip, as the rain pours onto the roads and the wind bats against her steering. Security is already waiting at the front of the estate, umbrellas in hand, for them when they arrive ten minutes later.

"Thanks Leon," Merlin manages over the downpour, as the man helps him to the doors under his umbrella. The doors are open, Arthur standing and looking impatient inside. "That's twice you've saved my head now," he adds, and Leon gives him a half-smile.

"And I expect you'll repay me in full soon," the security man says drily, eyes glancing around the hall in a way that gives Merlin the distinct impression Leon is more aware of the goings on than he lets on.

Arthur grunts, looking irritated. _Not murderous though_, a stubborn part of Merlin takes note.

"All of you. What are you doing back so late? I was waiting since I got home—"

"It's my fault, Arthur," Gwen interrupts. "I went and bought things for Gaius, last minute. I didn't think it would take as long as it did."

Arthur looks like he's staring straight through her. "Right. Obviously none of you noticed _the sky_ right above your heads."

"We got in before the worst of it hit," Morgana says flippantly, walking past Arthur. "I hope we didn't miss dinner, Mordred and I are starving."

"It's been put in the kitchens." Arthur sighs, pulling a hand through his hair. "You should all change your clothes, you might catch something."

With that he stalks away, leaving Merlin, Leon and Gwen in the hall. "He's probably right. You can come use my shower again, Merlin," Gwen says, and Merlin feels his face heat with Leon in earshot.

"No, you go ahead first. I'm more starving than I am wet," he tells her with a smile.

Ever since his bathroom started malfunctioning, she's been letting him use her shower—though usually by the time he wakes up to do so she's gone, already out or in her office. "Alright," Gwen shrugs. "I won't be long. I'll come find you when I'm done."

After that Merlin heads to the kitchens, making his way through the passages of Pendragon Estate with much more ease than he would have thought. The kitchen is rather hard to miss—on the south side of the first floor, right next to the grand dining hall Merlin feels like a mouse passing through. He encounters no one as he walks, no kitchen hand or security or Pendragon. It's a quiet, empty place.

But not the kitchens. Though its none of its rushed, aroma-filled splendor like that morning, Arthur of all people is sitting at a bar when Merlin enters, sipping a Coke thoughtfully. His face turns from unguarded to wary in an instant, upon seeing Merlin. "Just grabbing dinner," Merlin says in defense, crossing to a fridge.

"Not that one," Arthur says in a long-suffering tone, just as Merlin opens it to inspect. He begrudgingly finds the man to be correct.

With a sigh, Merlin turns around to look at the Pendragon. "Which one, then?" he almost snaps, impatient.

Arthur raises an eyebrow. "Moody tonight, I see. Nothing to do with hanging around women all day long, do you think?" His grin is sardonic, but playful.

Merlin feels a small smile against his lips, despite his effort. "Well, I'll make up for it. Another long night for _you and I_, my friend."

Arthur snorts. "Can't wait."

"I want to try something else, tonight," Merlin says earnestly, moving closer. "Something that might work better, I think. If you're up for it." The _Possession Circle_ isn't getting them anywhere. But if Merlin can convince Arthur, there's a better chance—

"I should have known!"

Both Merlin and Arthur turn toward Morgana's shocked voice. She's standing at the doorway Merlin came through, Mordred darting between her feet.

Looking downright scandalized.

"Not-so-secret lovers," she states matter-of-factly, shaking her head. "I'd only hoped different."

18.

"Morgana, what are you on about?" Arthur says in an annoyed tone, clearly as confused as Merlin.

Until Merlin remembers.

_She puts her hands on her hips, smirking. "You're either Arthur's pity project, his not-so-secret lover—" Merlin makes a gagging sound that she ignores, "—or his drug dealer. Or at the least, his fellow druggee."_

"Morgana, we are _not_—" Merlin struggles with the word.

"Not what? What—does she mean _us_, _lovers_?" Arthur supplies, disbelieving. Morgana nods.

Arthur looks affronted. "HELL. _NO_."

She stares at the pair of them with slitted eyes. "Alright, fine. Then explain to me what you two were just talking to each other about." She crosses her arms. "You and I? _Spending the night_ together? Trying something _new_? Making things _work better_? If you're _up for it_?"

Merlin feels like bursting out laughing more with each passing second. Arthur's face, turning the color of a tomato, Morgana, smile smug and eyebrows raised. It _is_ laughable that anyone would think such a thing, but even more laughable to hear how . . . well, believable it is. Without the whole information.

"Morgana—" Merlin starts, in a last ditch-effort. He's not even sure what weak excuse he plans on making.

A muffled scream followed by a sharp crash comes from above them.

With that Arthur's face changes remarkably back from tomato red, to bone white. "Guinevere," he whispers immediately. His stool screeches as he jolts to his feet, eyes on the ceiling above him.

"What—do you think something's happened?" Morgana says, mirth gone from her voice. Arthur doesn't answer. "Arthur!"

Arthur makes a run for the door, glancing back at both of them. "Probably an accident," he says quickly, "I'll check on her."

"Don't follow me!" he adds over his shoulder, disappearing into the hall. Morgana and Merlin share a brief look of shock, worry, concern—then Merlin follows right behind him.

_Screams? Crashes? Freak Accidents?_ This is his area of expertise.

When Merlin reaches Gwen's door on the second level—only managing to find it from three days of using her shower—Arthur is barely swinging it shut. Merlin stops instinctively upon hearing the voices on the other side.

"No, don't come in—!" Gwen exclaims before cutting off. "Oh. It's just you, Arthur."

"What. _Happened_."

Merlin can't make out Gwen's reply till her voice raises a bit, saying, "—and I saw his face, Arthur! I truly did. I know you don't believe . . . " she resumed in a lower tone, out of Merlin's earshot. He probably shouldn't be listening to a couple's private conversation anyway. _But if Gwen saw something_ . . . he presses his ear against the door.

Then things get audible.

"That doesn't explain how the glass _shattered_," Arthur says, frustrated.

"I don't _have_ an explanation. Not one you'd like to hear, anyway."

"Enlighten me. Or let me guess—you think _he_ did this? Popped up in your mirror, over-turned your vanity table and simultaneously shattered the mirror just to—what? Frighten you out of your towel?"

"Is this still so hard to believe? After everything, after seeing with your _own eyes_, after Merlin himself confirmed it—"

"Merlin Emrys is a harmless idiot who wouldn't know a ghost from his own shadow."

"You can't honestly believe that, Arthur."

Silence. Merlin, meanwhile, inwardly wondering if Gaius just had it backward—no, instead _HE_ was going to kill _Arthur_.

Eventually Arthur sighs. "Here, put on some clothes, would you?"

"I'm sorry to be so exposed in front of you." Her voice is sardonic, and tired.

"Guinevere . . . "

She mumbles something Merlin can't make out, and the two start talking so gently he only catches phrases like " . . . been tired, and stressed . . . " and " . . . understand that? I look at you and see . . . " and " . . . Arthur, _I love you_ . . . "

Merlin realizes he should probably back up and tiptoe away when only the sound of what is likely lips, and most definitely sighs and rustling fabric, come through the door. Especially when the bed-springs bounce a little, and Gwen's quiet laugh filters to his ears. He walks backward a little, shaking his head. _Looks as though Arthur and I won't be spending the night together after all._

He turns, grinning, and runs straight into Morgana.

After mouthing a sorry, helping her regain her balance, she whispers,"What did I miss?" Her voice is conspiratorial, eyes flitting to the closed door.

"Mmmm, well, I think Arthur and Gwen are rather busy in there." Merlin winks. "Best we ask about her well-being tomorrow. Though I doubt she'll reply in the negative."

It takes just a moment before he can tell she understands. Then Morgana's lips quirk in a slightly amused, slightly relieved smile.

They walk back in silence, Morgana ahead. Merlin notices a little toddler's absence only when he is halfway down the stairs. "Where's Mordred?" he inquires, no longer whispering.

"Oh, I had Eira put him to bed. Poor tyke was tired out from so much effort tiring _you_ out." She pauses and smiles up at him, down a few stairs ahead. "Thanks, by the way, for today. Can't have been how you thought you'd spend a day at _Pendragon Estate_," her voice lilts the title with flourish, smirking, "chasing after a two year old."

"So he's not 2 and a half, then?"

Morgana tilts her head—endearingly, Merlin might add.

"Technically yes." She frowns at him, obviously confused. Merlin just shakes his head, smiling.

They reach the foot of the stairs, and Morgana turns sharply to face Merlin again, eyes determined but smile hesitant. "Do you still need a wash?"

Before Merlin can shrug or reply neutrally she rushes on, "I have two baths, since it's me and Mordred. You—you're welcome to use one, seeing as Gwen's is no longer available tonight."

"That'd be great, thanks," he nods, smiling a little.

She nods back, clasping her hands together. "Great. Alright."

She lets out a breath, but then sucks it back in—"Oh! But you're probably still hungry. So," Morgana shrugs, "later then."

"Sure." Merlin's eyes follow as she heads back up the steps. When Morgana glances behind her, their eyes meet briefly. "Later."


	10. Chapter 10

19.

Merlin is exiting the bathroom, mussing his hair with a towel, when he notices Morgana standing there. She looks like she's been waiting for him, hair black and wet and her form wrapped in an over-large bathrobe.

"Hey," she says softly, eyes flitting to him.

"Hey."

She looks embarrassed. "I wanted to say . . . sorry, first off, for thinking you would—well, assuming that about you and Arthur." A wet strand of hair falls in front of her eyes, and Merlin resists the urge to tuck it back. "Honestly, I don't know why I thought Arthur would do such a thing to Gwen, even after she . . ." Morgana clears her throat, looking down.

Merlin's brows pull together. "You mean that—that Gwen—?" He's not sure how to finish the question. In any kind of scenario Merlin guessed as to why the Mr. and Mrs. Pendragon are having relationship problems, it never would have crossed his mind of Gwen.

Morgana is still looking down, not answering, and Merlin realizes his mistake. "Sorry," he rushes, "that's obviously not my business. _Obviously_. Sorry. But no, I would never . . . and I like Gwen. Better than Arthur, to be honest."

Morgana's eyes reach his again, a small smile on her lips. "Everyone does."

"Not surprising."

She lets out an amused breath. "Don't be _too_ hard on Arthur. He may seem rude, or callous, or arrogant, but," she bites her lip, shaking her head, "with who he's had as an example most of his life, Arthur's improved extremely."

Merlin's mind connects the dots. "You mean Uther?" Morgana's jaw locks, eyes taking on a hard glint. "Your father, and Arthur's father, right?" he presses. "I'm just assuming, since no one seems to like bringing him up, much less explain who he is." Merlin shrugs as she bites her lip, but inside he's pleading for an explanation. For one mystery, at least, to be solved.

They wait at a standstill, Morgana clearly undecided, till her head suddenly snaps up.

"I'll tell you about Uther if you tell me this," she counters, face switching from conflicted to confident like a light. "You went out to the graves, the cairns, on your first day here?"

Merlin nods, thrown off by the odd question. He's actually gone every day since, excluding today, hoping for a certain spirit to show his face and perhaps provide a nugget of insight. But Merlin has no idea of the actual time he arrived at the little hill, during the first visit. Every time since, it's always silent, empty.

Morgana takes a step forward. And perhaps being close to a person decreases the percentage of oxygen in that given space, because Merlin's breath feels short as she nears. "You saw Gwaine's cairn," she says, eyes searching his face, "you said that, didn't you?"

He nods again, wondering what she is getting at.

It becomes very clear. "_How did you know it was his grave?"_

Her voice is soft and yet sharp, eyes daring him to lie. But the truth being that Gwaine _told_ Merlin so, he settles on saying nothing. Quirking a smile at her, shaking his head.

"I guess I'll just stick with my guesses," he shrugs, referring to Uther.

Morgana's eyes widen, jaw clenching. Obviously surprised Merlin won't answer, truth or not.

Her hand catches his arm when he makes to go, pale fingers digging into his skin. Merlin looks down at her, face resolute. "Merlin, there's no plaque, nothing with his name on it. _How could you know_ it was his?" Her voice is insistent, hard and yet pleading.

Merlin pulls away. "What do you want me to say, Morgana?"

Her eyes widen again. "The _truth_!"

He groans, kneading his forehead with a hand. "What does it matter! Why is this so important to you?"

"Why is it such a hard question to answer?" she counters, crossing her arms. "_Something_ is going on. Maybe you're not a druggee, or Arthur's lover, or anything I've accused you of. But I'm not being told the truth, I know it." His silence appears to be enough of a confirmation when she glares in triumph.

"Is it that bad?" Morgana says then, and stares at him, scrutinizing his face. "Is Arthur putting you up to something? Are you a—a grave robber? Or, or just an old friend of Gwaine's? Why. Can't. I. Know?"

An excellent question. Gwen knows, Leon knows, Gaius knows—why not Morgana? What about her makes Arthur order him to stay away?

_"This is for both of your own goods. She'll freak out if she knows what you are, and then you'll be pestered by her constantly."_

Arthur told him so before even Day 1. At the time Merlin only assumed he meant Morgana would not take the whole "ghost haunting my house" thing calmly, but upon meeting her Merlin can't imagine that. Can't imagine any possible reason for Arthur's request, really.

So he settles for the truth. "Arthur doesn't want you to know."

Morgana's eyebrows lift in disbelief, but when he says no more she makes a frustrated sound.

"And you do _everything_ Arthur tells you to?"

"Yes! Yes, he's my—" Merlin's mouth snaps shut. "The point is, it's his call. You're _his_ sister. And besides," Merlin shakes his head, "I probably won't be here much longer as it is." That's him, Merlin Emrys, the clueless idiot Mr. Pendragon is mercifully paying for a job he's too incapably stupid to accomplish. That is what he is, to Arthur.

Only better than the psychic medium Merlin Emrys, a bearer of the triskelion, one of the few interpreters of _The Grimoire_, the former follower of the great prophetess, Nimueh. Token parts of his past that need to stay buried, hidden.

Because apparently most of that identity could get him killed.

"You're going to leave?" Her tone is incredulous. "When Arthur clearly needs you?"

Merlin stares at her, dumbstruck. "What gives you that impression?" _Besides, you know, a malicious ghost threatening the man's entire household._

"You don't believe me?" When his answering look tells her just how little, Morgana huffs. "Just last night," she says angrily, "I happened to be on the third floor, walking past Arthur's office. I overheard my brother, and he was telling Leon _you_ were their best hope."

When Merlin doesn't change face—though inside his heart stutters a beat—she continues. "Best hope for what, I have no idea. At the time, I thought he was making excuses about you and why you were staying." Morgana stops and scrutinizes Merlin, her stare almost intense enough to make him believe her next words. "But, clearly, you're important to him Merlin. He just needs—he's just a thick-headed dolt sometimes, is all."

A thick-headed, _murderous_ dolt, apparently.

Merlin swallows, sudden doubts pricking him like needles. "I should head back," he says quietly, though his feet step closer. Morgana is looking up at him silently, not answering. "And I . . . I wish you knew."

Her mouth opens, words on the cusp of spilling out, but he's through the door before they reach the edge of her tongue.

20.

Arthur is a prat. Arthur is annoying. Arthur doesn't believe. Arthur trusts him. Arthur's best hope is him. Arthur could _kill _him.

They just don't add up.

Merlin is back in the front parlor the next morning, the room in which he first met Arthur. Waiting. There are two chairs facing each other, on either side of wide double windows. He sits in one, staring at the other. Waiting.

Not for too long, it seems. The morning is almost achingly bright, the sky a complete blue, beaming onto the wooden floors and the chair across from him. And when a woman walks past him, the light shines straight through her.

She's like a clear, fresh breath of air, a drink from a cool, clear pond. Her presence evokes sensations completely opposite of the haunted spirit Merlin has been trying to reach. Serenity, peace, love, a touch of nostalgia. The woman sits in the chair across from him, face immediately turning to the window and sweeping distantly past him.

He watches her for a little, remembering when he first noticed her during Arthur's chat with him. Feeling again that connection, as strong as tree roots, anchoring her to this place and these people.

_My name is Merlin Emrys._

Her neck snaps forward, blue eyes staring at him. Like she hadn't noticed him till now.

_What's your name?_

The woman doesn't answer, just folds her hands in her lap. Looking at him hard—and immediately Merlin recognizes it. Recognizes that same analyzing stare, another scouring of his soul. Especially by such blue eyes.

_You're a Pendragon?_

She answers this time. **_Yes._**

Merlin tries not to let his eagerness show; he nods, giving her a small smile, trying tentatively with an untested approach.

_I know your son. _

Her eyes widen; Merlin has guessed right. This is Arthur's mother.

**_Arthur?_**

_Yes. He's here, living here still._

She nods. **_I know. Sometimes I . . . _**Her words fade off, brow furrowing.

Though he obviously hasn't experienced it himself, Merlin knows what she means. _I understand—you can see him, sometimes. And then sometimes you can't._

She nods, looking down at her lap.

_You should know: Arthur's in trouble. _

Her head snaps up. **_What do you mean?_**

_I'm here to help him. Because I can . . . well, I can do this. Speak to you._

**_I don't understand. Why does he need you to—?_**

_Someone else, another spirit, is here, in this house. Wreaking havoc on your family, I think, angry at Arthur for something. _

**_For what?_**

He shakes his head._ I don't know. _

They sit in silence, watching each other. He sees her hair is blonde, lighter than Arthur's, but her eyes the same blue, their corners crinkling the same way even without smiling. Merlin sees none of Morgana, but most of Arthur in this woman's gaze.

_What could Arthur have done? Do you know of anything, from his past, that could have brought on such hatred?_

She's already shaking her head. **_I passed on when he was born. I know very little of his life, only the glimpses I'm allowed._**

_And what do the glimpses tell you?_

**_That Arthur is a good man. He rules his life by his heart, and loves fiercely. I have seen him make mistakes, and then make them right, fall in love and out again, and forgive till he's broke with it. Nothing that wouldn't make me proud._**

_So he's never . . . killed someone, for instance? _

Her back straightens, eyes blinking at Merlin in surprise. **_NO. He would never think of it. If he had to resort to it, in self-defense, perhaps, but he would never . . . he's not a murderer. This spirit, whoever is haunting him—I swear on Arthur's behalf, it's not his fault. He didn't _****kill ****_that person. I know that much._**

Merlin nods. _Thank you. I hope you're right. _

**_I am right. I know that much of my son. I haven't always, but—we've spoken before, the two of us, through another medium like you. And everything he said then, and is, and does when I _****can****_ see him, assures me of that. _**

"Merlin, what _are_ you doing?"

The strong tendrils wrapping around Merlin like an embrace retract—the woman's face disintegrates into air, like they always do.

"_Mer_lin."

He blinks his eyes, hard, before glancing up in the direction of the voice. Arthur is squinting at him, arms crossed, looking prim and prattish in his usual suit.

"What are you doing here?" Merlin blurts out. When Arthur's eyebrows raise he adds hastily, "I mean, you're always gone by this time. It's nearly 9:30, isn't it?"

"I decided to sleep in," Arthur says nonchalantly. "Now tell me: where in your job description does it include staring at furniture for ten minutes straight?"

"You were watching me?"

"I was not watching you. _I_ happened to walk _past_ is all. And you haven't moved a muscle until that nod just now for at least five minutes." Arthur shakes his head, looking at Merlin like toads are hopping out his mouth. "_Honestly_. Could you be more strange?"

"I was thinking!"

"Merlin. Thinking. Two words I would have never thought to put together." Arthur smirks, starts walking back toward the entrance hall.

"You know two words that I think match perfectly?" Merlin calls to his retreating figure. "Arthur. And _ass._"

Arthur turns on his heels, a devious, slightly-frightening grin on his face. "_O_h! I just forgot. My secretary Sefa, will be joining us for dinner tonight. And you're the entertainment."

Merlin startles to his feet. "I'm the _what_?"

"It's not _that _hard, Merlin," Arthur laughs. "I need you to keep her busy when she comes back with me at three. I definitely don't want to spend three whole hours with the girl." He shudders.

Merlin frowns in confusion. "Why are you heading back so early, then?"

"Because I'm supposed to map out my schedule with her. And she thinks it'll take that long. _And_ I cannot stand her horrible personality for that long."

Well, maybe if Arthur hates her, Merlin will like her. He dimly recalls her voice when he was first contacted, setting up the first appointment, and she sounded nice enough. "Fine," Merlin shrugs. "Whatever. Now shouldn't you get going?"

Arthur waves off his words like they're smoke. "Not an issue. I can arrive whenever I choose."

"Really? And where exactly is that?"

Arthur says the name with flourish. "Headquarters of Camelot Industries."

Merlin's begrudgingly impressed. "You work for Camelot Industries?"

Arthur's grin gets way too smug. "_Nooo _Merlin, Camelot Industries works for _me, _the CEO. Bye. Be good—don't get hit by any more rocks today." He saunters off looking pretty pleased by how far Merlin's eyes are bugging out. Though he really should have expected as much.

Inside his head he chips this piece in. It's just another, one more to speak against Gaius's ghastly claim the day before. Two testaments against it: Morgana's, that Arthur needs Merlin, is relying on him; his mother's, that he is a good man, incapable of such a thing.

Merlin groans a sigh, tired of all this puzzling, falling back to the chair. Except he must have misjudged its distance behind him, because instead Merlin falls hard on his arse, hitting the floor.

_Ow._

**A/N: Review please! What do you all think of Arthur at this point? I'd love to hear :D  
And if you've read this far into the story, time to follow and favorite, am I right?**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Wow, so many new follows and favorites! I am in awe of the amazing response you've given! Man you guys are cool. I'm really honored so many keep reading this (especially all of you guests!), it totally boosts my motivation to keep writing even when I'm in a tough patch. You know what else does? Reviews. Honestly, I just look back at them and get all these fuzzy feelings inside telling me KEEP WRITING SOMEBODY CARES. So, thanks. This chapter doesn't have some of the answers I intended to fit in, but I'm positive all the important pieces of the puzzle are now on the table. All of them. Only thing left is to start piecing them together, right?**

**Just updated a small reincarnation one-shot if anyone wants to check it out. That'd be cool...  
Okay, end of shameless self-advertising.**

**Warning-depictions of major character death. (DEPICTIONS, mind you, not the actual thing.) Also no knowledge when it comes to businesses and investment firms AT ALL. Bear with me.**

21.

He turns around, glares at the chair.

It glares back.

Merlin can tell, quite quickly this time, what's taken him longer to identify the three times before. First, at the front door, then at the cairns, and last using the _Summoning Circle _Monday night.

It's here.

Sitting in the chair he'd sat in like the past few days of dormancy never happened, looking straight at him. Merlin can't see, but he can feel. The icy bitter hatred clawing at his nerves, pricking at his skull.

_Possessive, I see. Was I sitting in your favorite chair?_

Another wave of hatred washes over Merlin's scalp, making him shiver. But the spirit stays silent.

_You're a strange one. You acted so high and mighty, so superior my first day here. Yet you've stayed in the shadows, dormant since then, up until overturning that table and scaring Gwen._

_Is that all you're here for? A little scare or two?_

Nothing. If it wasn't for the heavy coldness present in the room, Merlin would think the spirit left.

_What has Arthur done? _

_What _is it_ he's paying for?_

The room seems to be getting darker. Like an impromptu shade of cloud cover has conveniently rolled in just now.

It's cloaked in invisibility, in silence, but he still feels it when the dark presence draws nearer. Merlin moves back a little, kicking his feet against the wooden floor. He doesn't realize he's trying to get away until a wave of horror turns his stomach. Horrible images flash behind his eyes:

Gwen, _pieces of glass embedded like crystal in her neck, eyes glassy and blood pooling crimson on the floor_.

A small little body, _floating on its back in a green lake, black hair rippling with the water_.

A dark sky looming over the estate—_countless other faces Merlin doesn't recognize,_ _turned away from the gates._.

Then, Arthur. _Standing amidst all of it, face wavering. Like there could be two outcomes_. Merlin sees them both; he sees Arthur crumble to his knees, defeated. But he also watches a different Arthur—_standing resolutely, at the gates of the estate. Smiling._

The distance between him and the spirit is closing in, its presence thicker, heavier, all but wrapping around him, and Merlin is suffocating on the images, his throat squeezing uselessly for air, like gripping fingers are grabbing, then choking, then quickly closing around his shoulder—

Merlin wrenches back from the hand, fear panging like a pulse in his gut. His eyes don't fully comprehend what they see above him as the other horrific images fade: a worried face, an outstretched arm, a hand still reaching for him.

"Merlin. What's wrong? Merlin, are you alright?"

He blinks a few times, breathing in a miraculous lungful of air. He meets the concerned face again, this time with recognition. "Are you alright?" Gwen repeats, still offering out a hand.

Merlin takes it, rising to his feet unsteadily. His legs feel brittle, more unsteady than ever. "Fine," he manages, cringing inwardly at the light filtering into the room and warming the air. Like that dark presence, that horrible imagery of Gwen's unseeing eyes and blood-matted curls were just guiles of his imagination.

Because here she is, in front of him, completely un-maimed if a little anxious.

Gwen is leading him somewhere; the north side of the floor, he thinks dimly. Almost all of those doors had been locked during his initial exploration. They pass two hallways, turning on the third. A blond maid is retreating from one of the doors, locking it behind her, when they turn round the corner.

"Eira?" Gwen says lightly, quite unaffected despite Merlin's heavy grip on her arm.

The girl jumps to face them both. She appears taken aback, both at the sight of them and the state of Merlin. He must look quite wretched.

"Mrs. Pendragon! I'm so sorry, I was just—" she blushes, smoothing down her gray skirt. Still shooting Merlin almost curious glances. "Is something the matter? Shall I—"

"Bring tea for Merlin and I," Gwen says firmly. "Yes. We'll be in the study."

Eira the maid nods quickly, darting past them whilst fixing slightly ruffled hair. Merlin wonders if she wasn't the only disheveled person to walk out of the room.

Gwen stops at a door halfway down the hallway. "Merlin?" she glances up at him, expression almost apologetic. "I need my arm."

He stares at her stupidly for a moment before realizing. "Sorry," he tries for a grin, releasing the arm that then pulls a key from her pocket, unlocking the door and permitting them inside.

The inside is both plain and expensive; shelves and furniture of plush fabric and dark, thick wood, shining wooden floors and simple decorations. The study is all that the name entails—closed-off, comfortable, quiet, with lampshades next to each chair. Gwen sits him down in one, placing a hand on his cheek.

"You're freezing," she almost scolds, moving to warm his face with both hands.

Merlin's hands stop her own. "It's fine." He lets go of one of her hands, patting the other. "Sorry to give you a scare."

"Give _me_ a scare? Merlin, you look like you've seen a gh—" Gwen stops herself quickly, gentle smile freezing unnaturally. Merlin swallows.

"You look horribly pale," she amends eventually. "Perhaps I should call Gaius—?"

He shakes his head.

They stay like that, Merlin sitting and holding one of her small hands, Gwen standing with one against his warming cheek, up until a tentative knock sounds from the door. Eira leaves them their tea, after being reassured by Gwen she needs nothing else, and they drink silently. And though Merlin seriously still has no fondness for the beverage, when he drinks the warmth seems to seep into somewhere deeper than his stomach. Somewhere still harboring memories, as heavy as a stone, reminding him of the one time in the past a spirit has shown him equally horrid things.

There's a closed laptop on one of the ottomans, and Gwen swivels the latter to a chair and sits near him. Merlin watches as she taps and types for a little, taking a sip of tea every now and then. Completely alive. No glass embedded in her neck.

"You need to tell me everything," he blurts suddenly, putting the cup down.

22.

Gwen jerks in surprise, gasping as her tea spills a little and burns her neck. Merlin's next words dry up in his mouth.

"Oh, Gwen, _sorry_—"

She waves off his apologies, wiping the skin dry with a napkin. "You just startled me is all. What with not speaking more than a few words, the past few minutes."

"Sorry. I've just . . . you are . . . I need to know." Merlin can tell by how Gwen is still dabbing at her neck, eyes down, that he won't pull this out of her easily. "Whatever you're not telling me."

Silence. "Mrs. Pendragon, there is something." Their eyes meet, hers wary.

Merlin pours all the fervor he can into his next words. "And that secret, whatever none of you are clueing me in on, it's going to cost you. More than you think." His tongue feels heavy, just imagining the task of describing what he's seen to Gwen.

Her face pales, mouth working silently. "I can't be kept in the dark. Whatever part of Arthur's past, the part that's caused all this to happen, I need to hear it."

He feels his heart sink impossibly lower when she begins to shake her head.

"Gwen, listen—"

"No, you need to listen," she cuts in, voice drawn. "This is _not._ _Arthur's. fault_. He's trying his best. He's doing his best for me, for Morgana and Mordred, for Camelot. Whatever the cost his best demands, it's worth paying."

She isn't making any sense. "What if this spirit isn't just a nuisance? What if it means greater harm, worse than spooking you in your mirror and overturning a table?"

Gwen opens her mouth, then closes it.

"Merlin," she starts slowly, "I didn't say that I saw it in my mirror."

"I overheard you tell Arthur," he deadpans. "I heard what you said: that you saw his face. 'Truly did,' as you put it." This woman knows more, he's positive, than what she's letting on.

Gwen's face turns frightened. "Please Merlin, let's talk about something else."

"_No_. This is why I'm here, if you recall, not to entertain Arthur or babysit Mordred. I've had enough of all you Pendragons shutting down the second I try to do my job." Merlin knows he's being harsh, knows his words are what is causing the panic in her eyes. But he's not done. "This is the—the _strangest_—job, case, I've ever undertaken, considering the past five days hardly any of you breathe a word to me, yet you hired me knowing _full well_ what this would entail. I'm a psychic medium, Guinevere. I am the channel between the spirit stalking your household, and _you_."

He shakes his head. "A channel is useless, though, if one side is completely dammed up with secrets and lies."

Gwen says nothing, holding gaze between his blue and her brown. _Apparently marrying into the family also includes taking up the classic Pendragon stare._

There's a moment, a clear singular second in which Merlin sees her face waver. Falter, almost.

Then music blares into the air, ending that moment. Gwen pulls her eyes from him, taking her ringing phone from her pocket. "Arthur. Yes, I did." She stands, giving Merlin a wan smile before heading towards the door.

He feels a short, sick turn in his stomach when the door clicks shut. "The last of the files . . . " Her voice fades into nothing, Merlin left sitting alone in the study. The tea is just warm enough now in his hands, warm enough to taste its bitter tang.

There's no real explanation for why he does what he does next. Moving over to where Gwen was sitting, moving his finger over the black screen.

It flares to life again, tabs Gwen's pulled up still lined up under the search engine.

**_Chilled Investors bear the blunt of a Frozen Camelot (by Julius Borden, June 21_****_st_****_, 2014, editor-in-chief of the _****Albion Times****_.)_**

_Camelot Industries, global investment firm, headquartered in Albion, England. The recent  
halt of activity, freezing all assets and investments, has been engaged by Arthur Pendragon  
not a year into his acquired position as managing director. Investors are now left at odds with  
this sudden, unexplained cessation of what has been an exponential growth of capitol, the  
most in recent years Camelot Industries has seen since its formation in 1986. Since Camelot  
adjusted its strategy to focus on leveraged buyouts__and growth capital__investments, in more  
mature companies like __**Nemeth Packaging**__ and __**Gormause Inc.**__, their model to buy . . ._

Merlin skimmed through the rest, ignoring the Business Major in him. His eyes are all but yanked back to a portion at the near bottom of the article, when a certain name catches his eye.

_Speculation on the mental state of the young, inexperienced Arthur Pendragon, likely still grieving  
over his father the late Uther Pendragon (CEO of Camelot Industries, July 1986-January 2012),  
running a firm managing more than $75 billion of investor capital . . ._

The rest features mostly gossip, an anonymous source informing on Arthur's strange behavior at headquarters and lack of communication with major investors. Merlin's brain feels exhausted, just reading about all of it.

The next tab is little more telling—an answered email:

_My problem, as you so pointed out, still remains. Whatever new deals or_  
_promising investments you wish to push down my throat, you'll be wasting _  
_your time doing so. I'm not sure what you expect of me, Mr. Pendragon, _  
_but I can tell you what I expect of you. Your father had it right in very few _  
_things, but in this we always agreed. Whatever noble cause all this stems _  
_from, you need to take into account the thousands of jobs at risk. The _  
_billions of dollars at stake._  
_I expect you'll make a grand show pulling out of every investment you _  
_define as immoral, and revert right back to Uther Pendragon's standard of _  
_Camelot Industries, in the end. Because there's no other way to keep up _  
_the empire your father's created. You will lose, and keep losing, and I will _  
_pull out quicker than even Alined would dream of the second you start. _  
_Camelot will crumble into nothing and all you'll have is your spoiled family _  
_name and whatever cash is stuffed in your drawers._

_I say all of this, and yet numbers speak better for me: 54 public limited _  
_companies and 23 billion in venture capital. You lose me, you lose that. _  
_You lose that, you lose me._

_Friend to friend, I would start rigging some anonymous sources._

_Cenred King_

At the bottom of the email is the url to the article Merlin just read. In response, Gwen has only a few words typed out:

_Thank you for responding. As I've pointed out before, either way you will_  
_lose any chance at profit. However if you would continue to aid Camelot in _  
_time your losses would be repaid. Double, if things can be worked out _  
_between Gormause Inc. Uther spent most of |_

Camelot Industries is facing troubles, then. Merlin puzzles over this, wondering at Arthur's decision to put the entire firm on standby. It wouldn't hurt investments for quite a while, but it would leave his primary investors edgy. And what Cenred King, obviously one of them, sent about "pulling out of every investment you define as immoral," what did that mean?

Of course, this has little to do with anything Merlin is trying to figure out. The bit about the late Uther Pendragon, CEO before Arthur, and Cenred's comments on Uther's "standard of Camelot Industries," tell Merlin a little more on the man, but nothing about who he was to Arthur. Other than, it appears, his father.

Gwen has yet to come back. It would be pointless even if she does, Merlin knows, judging by the relieved way she shut the door behind her. He's gone to all of the Pendragons for answers, yet here he sits, having to resort to reading their emails. It's unsettling, after helping many people eager to spill their stories and reconcile with their deceased. Who would have guessed it, Merlin misses other talkative people.

The atmosphere of the silent study changes. Like an answer to a prayer, Merlin feels an unexpected, dominant presence slam into him almost like a rock to the head. With all of the force, and none of the pain.

"Gwaine?"

He turns to see a weak shadow of the man, leaning against the bookcase with his arms crossed.

Gwaine grins. "Did you miss me?"


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Warning-my first pretty serious warning for a sequence concerning self-harm/suicide. Its minor in my opinion but if you want to skip that, start reading after the page break "ooOOoo" and, if you want, I can PM users a summary. Sorry and thank you!**

23.

The moon found Merlin trudging on the sidewalk alone, one windy night. It was just barely November, just barely late enough to be late. His mother, likely still up watching one of her sitcoms, wouldn't expect him home any time soon.

Will was the reason. For the numbness in his hands, the heaviness in his shoulders, the sick in his head.

Merlin let him borrow his gloves to grab the wallet forgotten in the car, and still had them now. It wasn't a big deal at the time, just a hasty exchange of keys and words before the waiter came back. And Merlin left in too much of a hurry to bother asking for them back. Now he wished he had.

He left in a hurry after some of Will's rather unpleasant mates showed up on the pair's way back to Will's, herded them with both jeers and reassurance to Mary's pub, and proceeded in trying to get the two 17 year olds drunk. And watching Will dance with some of the girls there, to the sound of his peers cheering, to the sound of laughter and acceptance—that's what put the sick in Merlin's head.

All he could see was Freya's exasperated smile when they announced it was boys night, the love in her eyes when she kissed Will goodbye.

And that image flooding his vision was perhaps the reason Merlin didn't notice at first the old man who'd come in step beside him, keeping easily with his rushed pace. Not until, of course, the man spoke.

"You care about her? Freya?"

Merlin stopped mid-step, staring at him. Old, with smile lines and a bushy gray beard and dark eyes.

"Tell me, boy. Freya—you wish her well?"

Merlin knew who this was. Pictures of this face and Freya's, as a little girl, littered her room. "I do, sir."

"I expected so," the old man grunted, nodding. "Then you'll hear me out, I know."

Her grandfather started walking again, Merlin staring after him a moment before realizing he was supposed to follow. They turned a corner, to the side of a closed store, and the old man stopped.

"You have a message," Merlin said, no question in his voice. The ones who came to him, came to speak and understand, conversed like they were alive. Out loud, into the air.

The only difference being that his breath puffed into the dark a cloudy white, and the old man's did not.

"For you," the spirit answered, placing a thick hand on Merlin's shoulder. It felt like an icy bucket of water was being poured down the nerves of his arm—but Merlin focused on the old man's next words. "I fear for what is coming. For what has come. And what will come, for my Freya, Merlin."

"Is something wrong?" Merlin inquired, taken aback by her grandfather's solemn words.

He nodded. "She's in danger. She hasn't told anyone yet, kept it hidden well, but I've seen."

His dark eyes looked watery, tear-filled. "What do you want me to do? What is she in danger from?" Merlin asked, looking for answers in them.

He found them shortly. For Freya's grandfather gripped his other shoulder as well, staring at Merlin with eyes like wells, the answers lying in their depths.

A starry night, _her face looking out the foster home window_.

A blade, _glinting in the low lamplight as her hand slowly opened a drawer. Taking the weapon out,, carrying it the bathroom_.

Red, _seeping from her wrists and onto white tile_.

Harsh breaths, _growing fainter as the scarlet pool grew and grew and . . ._

"She's in danger from herself," the old man's whisper ripped Merlin back into reality. He blinked dumbly, hardly able to focus on the spirit's face.

But a moment later the apparition crumbled, bits of Freya's grandfather blowing away into dust, and from dust into nothing but a cold breeze suited for the November night.

The world tilted and Merlin's knees struck pavement, the pain hardly registering as his mind tried to accommodate such an experience. Such a terrifying, horrible experience, nothing in the nine years Merlin had seen and conversed with spirits to compare it to. And all that coupled with horrendous fear, ominous dread as the images replayed themselves in his head.

He turned right instead of left at the next intersection, the panicky determination in his heart quickening his legs into an all-out sprint. His phone was already on speed-dial.

ooOOoo

"Why here?" Merlin wonders aloud as he walks through the threshold of the guest room, _his_ room. Gwaine, who's already inside and sprawled across Merlin's bed, makes a broad sweep of one hand before explaining, "This one was mine, for a good year. Good place to keep me connected here, for as long as I can."

Merlin's eyebrows rise. "They gave me _your_ room?"

"Should feel honored, yeah?" Gwaine grins, sitting up finally and glancing around. "Ahh, but it's been awhile. I can't blame Gwen for putting this place to some use. Bet it was getting dusty, without me to stir things up." He rolls quite suddenly over, flipping to the opposite side of the bed before examining the bedside table and, after a moment, exclaiming an "AHAHH!"

Merlin jumps, startled as Gwaine waves him over excitedly. "Look! Here, Merlin, it's still here. In all her glory, too." He walks cautiously over, inspecting the spot of wood the man seems so excited over.

It's a burn mark, he sees, from something likely set down on the table. And . . . well. It looks a little like. Ahem.

Gwaine breaks down laughing immediately after craning to see Merlin's expression, which can't be helped. Merlin shakes his head at such a sound of pure glee. "Percival about pissed his trousers when we noticed it," Gwaine says proudly after calming down, tapping it once affectionately.

"How exactly did _it_ happen?"

"Not entirely sure. We were both stoned something bad," Gwaine shrugs in a mock serious tone. "Probably missed the ashtray trying to put out a joint, I reckon." His face cracks into a grin almost immediately. "That kind of thing led to the end of me eventually, but. Funny as hell at the time, funny as hell still."

Merlin snorts after one more glance at the bedside table, shaking his head. "Good to know the point of your urgent call from the dead was actually to reminisce smoking pot and scar me."

Gwaine's black eyes take on a mischievous glint as he answers, "You think you're scarred now? Haven't even told you about the wonderful shower. Or that nicely placed desk over there," he gestures, mirth evident.

Merlin folds his arms and shakes his head. There's no way he's getting ensnared into Gwaine's undoubtedly obscene narratives. Even if a morbid part of his curiosity is piqued. "It's a wonderful shower no longer," Merlin informs Gwaine, who cocks his head in interest. "Since I've gotten here the shower and sink both stopped working."

The spirit's face now is serious, nodding as he sits up. "A lot of things around here seem to be 'Out of Order,' so to speak." Gwaine glances around, brows pulled together before he looks at Merlin again. "Never experienced anything like it. For an eternity it feels like, I've been walking around, waiting around. Always feeling myself drawn to my grave, same time all the time. Until about four months ago."

"What happened?" Merlin asks, Gwen's words echoing in his head. _"It started about four months ago—and that was just the beginning."_

"Nothing really. Just this feeling," Gwaine shrugs, "like order was unraveling. Or the clockwork the dead side of this estate has been relying on lost its cogs. I feel the connection between myself and this place, fading out, more and more.

"I'm sorry I wasn't at the cairns to meet you," he adds, giving Merlin a sheepish grin. "Bet you felt like an idiot, getting stood up by a ghost."

Merlin snorts. "Not the first time, let me tell you."

"Really?" Gwaine raises an eyebrow in interest.

Merlin smirks. "I won't get into the tale now. Not when we're short on time and you've yet to tell me what exactly—"

"What exactly I've interrupted your morning about, I know," Gwaine nods, voice solemn. He stands, light pouring through his shadowed frame from the window directly behind. The man's never looked more like a ghost as he states quietly: "I've come to warn you."

24.

_Warn me that Arthur potentially could kill me? Already covered, mate._

Merlin says nothing though, only waits as Gwaine sucks in a breath and continues.

"Every time I've gone to my grave, I've opened the gate, and then closed it. Not really the cemetery gate, mind you—the gate between me and this place. It kept getting harder to open, to shut, for some time. And then, when I left the last time, after speaking with you—" Gwaine cuts off, confusion evident on his face. His voice seems to be getting more echoey. "I don't know, but I couldn't close it. Something escaped past me, big and dark and invisible. I know it was someone, Merlin, but it's like a great black fog was concealing them from me. All I could tell was its intent—to hurt you. To scare you away."

"To throw a rock at the back of my head," Merlin confirms, pointing where staples still puncture his scalp.

Gwaine raises his eyebrows. "Indeed. Well, ever since, it's been barring my way. Barring everyone's way, for the most part. I only managed to reach you once I realized," he pauses, looking past Merlin.

Merlin turns his head, seeing nothing but the quiet room around them. "Realized what, Gwaine?" He turns back to Gwaine's solemn face.

"He's gathering his strength," Gwaine answers, voice even more soft and echo-ey. "The past few days of nothing, Merlin—it's not a rouse or a fake-out. It's a strategy. He knows he can defeat you—"

"So it is a he, then?" Merlin interrupts.

Gwaine nods. "I think so. And he thinks of you as just an impediment, a small obstacle. There's something bigger he's after, I don't know what, yet I can feel it each time he presses me back. And after the confrontation between you two in the parlor, he was weak enough for me to slip through. To warn you." The spirit's eyes are wide and wary, lips in a tight smile as he separates the distance between them and speaks to Merlin's eyes now. "Ghosts cannot kill. But I fear what he plans . . . what he plans will be much, much worse."

Merlin's mouth opens, though he has no thought of what words to speak.

"Merlin—" Gwaine starts again.

A knock sounds from the door. "Merlin!"

Merlin pales as he recognizes the voice. "Yes Morgana?" He calls back, silently gesturing for Gwaine to wait till he can get rid of her.

"Could I leave Mordred with you for a bit?" Her voice carries from the door. "Gwen and I—"

"That's fine!" Merlin interrupts quickly. "Just give me a second."

She answers after a moment with a slightly off-put "Of course."

He lets out a breath upon hearing her retreat, Gwaine peering curiously at the door. "That was Morgana, right?" he asks in a peculiar tone. Merlin nods. "Strange," Gwaine frowns, "never thought I'd hear her voice on these premises again. Not in such calm cadences, at least." The spirit chuckles.

If Gwaine's form wasn't fading, disintegrating with every word he spoke, Merlin might ask what exactly he means. But there are much more important things to understand. "I don't know how long she's been here," he says, "but—"

"Who's Mordred?" Gwaine looks almost concerned.

"Her son," Merlin replies hastily. "Now—"

"_Son_? She has a _son_?" Merlin nods, and Gwaine shakes his head slowly. "Much has changed then. I fear I've been gone much, much longer than I thought. Which means Percival . . . " he trails off, eyebrows rising in alarm. "Merlin," he says suddenly, grabbing Merlin's arm—Merlin feels an icy coldness drip into his nerves at the touch—"I need you to find him. Percival will help, if no one else will. You have to stop this thing, from whatever it plans." His entire form is almost gone, just the outlines remaining to Merlin's physical eye.

"I will, but Gwaine," Merlin starts, just as the door behind him opens.

Gwaine stares at it, behind Merlin, the shadow of his face contorting into surprise and confusion even as it disintegrates into nothing. A part of Merlin sinks, looking into the empty air that used to be Gwaine. Gone, like the man doesn't exist. Though in a certain matter of science, he doesn't.

Merlin almost forgets someone is standing at the doorway until he turns and sees the very small Mordred there, an uncommon smile on his face. He's looking past Merlin, right to where Gwaine used to be.

Merlin feels slightly faint when a small chubby hand points to that same spot, as Mordred's first word to have reached Merlin ears turns out to be—

"Who?"

**A/N: Follow, Favorite, Review! For all who review (that have accounts, sorry) as a treat I'll PM a short snippet from the upcoming chapter!**


End file.
